Xingshi 姓氏
Clarissa Goenawan
Diterjemahkan oleh Nataya Bagya
Ilustrasi oleh Sukutangan.
Xingshi (姓氏) berarti nama marga.
Nama marga bagi bangsa Cina adalah sesuatu yang diwariskan turun-temurun dari generasi ke generasi, dari ayah ke putra-putranya. Kewajiban utama seorang istri adalah melahirkan seorang putra demi melanjutkan kelangsungan nama keluarga.
Namaku adalah Liem Kang Lie. Xingshi-ku adalah Liem (林), yang berarti hutan. Aku lahir pada 1917, tahun ular, dan tinggal di desa Fujian bersama orangtuaku yang petani dan dua orang adik lelaki.
Ketika aku berusia enam belas tahun, orangtuaku mengaturkan perjodohan untukku.
“Kita beruntung,” kata Pa sambil menghapus keringat dari dahinya dengan handuk putih yang melingkari lehernya. “Ayah gadis itu baru saja meninggal, dan ibunya sudah putus asa berusaha menemukan suami bagi anak-anak gadisnya.”
Aku menunduk, memerangi keinginanku untuk menggaruk-garuk lantai dengan kakiku. Itu kebiasaan burukku saat aku sedang merasa tidak nyaman. Ma tidak menyukainya, menurutnya itu sangat tidak sopan.
“Ibu gadis itu adalah sepupu dari tanteku, dan dia lebih tua satu tahun dari pada Kang Lie,” Pa melanjutkan. “Seorang comblang sudah memastikan bahwa tanggal dan jam kelahirannya cocok dengan tanggal dan jam kelahiran Kang Lie. Mereka berdua akan diberkahi putra yang banyak.”
Ma menuangkan teh untuk Pa. “Apakah dia punya adik atau kakak?”
Pa mengangguk. “Tiga kakak lelaki, dan adik-adik perempuan.”
Aku menekan jempol kaki kananku lebih dalam lagi ke sela-sela papan kayu lantai. Aku berharap gadis ini cantik, tetapi aku tahu betul yang terjadi pasti sebaliknya. Peternakan kami kecil, dan aku masih punya dua adik lelaki. Kami tidak boleh menjadi pemilih yang rewel.
Beberapa hari kemudian, keluargaku dan aku pergi ke rumah calon istriku. Dia tinggal di desa sebelah. Calon mertuaku mengerutkan alisnya saat melihat betapa sedikitnya hadiah-hadiah seserahan kami. Ma, sebaliknya juga mengangkat alisnya saat calon adik-adik iparku membagi-bagikan kue pengantin.
“Mengapa kau tidak bilang keluarganya punya enam anak gadis?” bisik Ma pada Pa setelah kami meninggalkan rumahnya. “Bagaimana jika gadis itu tak bisa mengandung anak lelaki?”
Pa menghela nafas. “Bagaimana aku bisa tahu?”
Ma menunduk. Pa menggelengkan kepalanya dan mendahului kami.
Aku berhenti berjalan dan menoleh sekali lagi untuk melihat rumah calon istriku. Rumahnya jauh lebih kecil daripada rumah kami dan butuh perbaikan besar-besaran. Aku bisa membayangkan air menetes ke dalam mangkuk-mangkuk kecil dan ember-ember tiap kali hujan turun.
“Kang Lie,” sepupuku berteriak memanggil. “Apa yang kau lihat?”
Aku menggelengkan kepala. “Aku hanya berpikir sepertinya akan hujan.”
Ia menengadah ke arah langit biru yang cerah, bersih dari awan. Aku merasa bodoh. Aku begitu saja mengucapkan itu tanpa berpikir. Tentunya, sore itu tidak ada hujan. Tetapi hujan deras datang pada hari pernikahanku.
Dengan dandanan baju merah yang berbahan panas dan tebal, aku mencoba menebak wajah pengantin perempuanku di balik cadar. Aku perhatikan bahwa ia mengepalkan tangannya.
Setelah mengangkat kerudungnya, aku menamatkan wajahnya yang tak terlalu cantik. Dia bisa saja cantik jika hidungnya tak terlalu kecil. Aku mengalihkan pandangan pada tangannya. Ada bekas cengkeraman-cengkeraman kuku pada kulit tangannya.
Setahun setelah pernikahan kami, istriku hamil. Ma ribut sekali menggerecokinya, memperlihatkan kebahagiaannya akan mendapatkan cucu lelaki pertama dan tidak menghiraukan senyum khawatir di wajah istriku. Bagaimana mungkin ibuku begitu yakin, aku tak paham hingga suatu kali aku menguping pembicaraannya dengan istriku.
“Menurutmu bentuk perutmu bundar atau lonjong?” tanya Ma. “Kalau lonjong, berarti kau mengandung anak lelaki. Kalau kamu mengandung anak perempuan, perutmu akan bundar. Ini betulan. Aku mengalaminya sendiri.”
Istriku diam saja. Aku heran mengapa ia tidak mengatakan bahwa Ma tak pernah punya anak perempuan.
“Dengar, ini penting,” Ma merendahkan suaranya. “Kau tak akan melahirkan anak perempuan.”
Ada jeda, sebelum istriku berkata, “Tapi bagaimana kalau…”
“Jika anakmu perempuan, Bibi Yin akan merawatnya dengan biaya yang sepadan.”
Jantungku terasa melompat.
“Tapi jangan khawatir, kau akan memberiku cucu lelaki. Si Tukang Comblang mengatakan kau cocok dengan Kang Lie, dan kau akan memberinya banyak anak lelaki untuk meneruskan xingshi kami.”
Istriku tidak mengatakan apa-apa lagi. Aku mengintip dan melihatnya mengepalkan tangannya kencang, hingga kukunya menghunjam kulitnya. Aku meninggalkan rumah dan pergi ke ladang.
Aku memikirkan adik-adik perempuan istriku, senyum mereka yang gugup saat membagikan kue pengantin, dan aku menghela nafas dalam-dalam. Peluang tidak sedang memihak kepadaku.
Pagi itu, aku berjanji pada diriku sendiri: jika anakku lelaki, aku akan membelikan istriku gelang yang indah.
Anak pertamaku lelaki, tetapi aku lupa soal gelang itu.
Beberapa tahun kemudian, aku punya anak lagi. Lelaki juga, tetapi tidak seperti anak pertamaku, yang kedua ini sakit-sakitan. Bidan desa kami mengatakan ia tak akan bertahan lebih dari seminggu, maka ketika anak kedua kami berusia satu bulan, kami memutuskan untuk melakukan sesuatu yang spesial.
Ada seorang lelaki muda yang bekerja pada sebuah surat kabar di kota. Seminggu sekali, ia mengunjungi keluarganya di desa. Ia memiliki kamera, maka aku pun memintanya untuk mengabadikan foto keluarga kami.
Istriku beres-beres rumah dan kami mengenakan pakaian terbaik kami, tetapi ketika lelaki itu datang, ia mengatakan bahwa sinar mataharinya kurang baik untuk berfoto.
“Mari kita berfoto di luar saja,” sarannya.
Aku berjalan dengan putraku diikuti istriku yang menggendong si bayi. Kami berdiri di tengah perternakan kami. Tanah kami terlihat sangat menyedihkan. Tahun itu, Cina sedang menderita kemarau. Aku menatap tanah yang pecah-pecah dan bertanya pada lelaki itu apakah tidak sebaiknya kita pergi ke tempat lain saja.
“Tak apa-apa,” katanya. “Ini sudah cukup baik.”
Ia meminta kami berdiri berdekatan, dan memintaku untuk meletakkan tangan kananku di tangan istriku. Ia meminta kami untuk tersenyum, tetapi matahari bersinar terlalu terang sehingga aku justru memicingkan mataku.
Lelaki muda itu berjanji untuk membawa hasil cetak fotonya pekan depan. Saat kami terima, aku menyesal telah berfoto. Istriku menghabiskan waktu lama sekali menatapnya. Aku tidak bisa membantu apa-apa. Putra keduaku akhirnya meninggal dunia pada usia satu bulan empat hari. Kami membakar semua barang-barangnya, kecuali foto keluarga itu, istriku membawanya ke mana-mana setiap saat.
Setahun lagi berlalu, tetapi kemarau tidak juga berakhir. Tanah seperti menolak untuk menghasilkan buah. Penduduk desa sudah berulang kali melaksanakan ritual memohon hujan, tetapi para dewa tidak menjawab doa kami. Para petani seperti kami tidak punya apa-apa untuk dijual dan dimakan. Banyak orang meninggal akibat kelaparan dan penyakit, termasuk Pa dan adik lelakiku yang paling kecil. Kami berhasil bertahan karena pamanku yang bekerja di kota mengirimi kami uang kapan ia mampu.
Suatu siang Paman datang, Ma berlutut di hadapannya dan memohon. “Tolong kau bawa Kang Lie bersamamu.”
Paman dengan segera memintanya untuk berdiri. “Apa maksudmu, Kakak?”
“Jika ia tetap tinggal, cepat atau lambat kami semua akan mati kelaparan. Aku mohon bawa dia ke kota dan bantu dia mendapatkan pekerjaan.”
“Bagaimana mungkin? Dia anak sulungmu.”
Ma menangis lebih keras. “Itulah sebabnya kau harus membawanya.”
“Tidak bisakah kau bertahan sedikit lagi? Aku yakin cepat atau lambat hujan akan turun.” Paman melihat istri dan putraku yang masih kecil. “Bagaimana mungkin kau pisahkan lelaki dari keluarganya?”
Istriku ikut berlutut. “Ibu benar. Tolong bantu suamiku mencari kerja di kota.”
Paman menghela nafas dan menggelengkan kepalanya. “Saat ini, tidak ada pekerjaan di sana. Banyak orang dari pelosok desa datang ke kota, berpikir mereka bisa menemukan pekerjaan. Tapi bisnis saat ini juga sedang buruk. Kemarau sudah melambungkan harga makanan. Nyaris tak ada yang kuat bertahan. Dan tak ada yang mempekerjakan orang baru.”
Ma menatap kantong sutra yang diletakkan Paman di meja. “Lalu uang itu…”
Paman menghela nafas panjang lagi. “Itu gaji terakhir yang kuterima dari atasanku. Toko kami merugi dua bulan terakhir ini dan si bos akhirnya memutuskan untuk menjualnya.”
“Tak bisa kupercaya…” wajah Ma pucat. “Apa yang akan terjadi kepada kita?”
“Mari terus berdoa hujan sebentar lagi turun.”
“Bagaimana denganmu, Paman?” tanyaku. “Apa yang akan kau lakukan?”
Paman tersenyum lemah. “Aku berencana meninggalkan Cina. Kita punya keluarga di Melaka dan Surabaya.”
“Maksudmu…” suara Ma serak. “Kau akan…”
Paman mengangguk, dan menatapku. “Perjalanannya akan panjang dengan kapal laut. Mungkin kita tidak akan berhasil, dan kita tak tahu apa yang akan menunggu kita di sana. Apakah kau masih ingin pergi?”
Aku menelan ludah dengan berat hati. Pikiranku kosong. Pada saat itu, waktu seperti berhenti. Telapak tanganku berkeringat dan aku tak bisa mengedipkan mataku.
Putraku mulai merengek. Istriku menenangkannya, menanyakan apa yang terjadi. Ia tak menjawab. Mungkin juga ia tak paham. Tetapi aku menemukan jawabanku akibat tangisannya.
Aku membungkuk pada Paman. “Bawa aku pergi.”
Sebuah kapal laut ke Surabaya akan berangkat dalam sepuluh hari, sementara yang ke Melaka akan berangkat satu bulan lagi. Karenanya aku memutuskan untuk berangkat ke Surabaya.
Tidak ada yang mau membahas keberangkatanku yang semakin dekat, tetapi terasa. Istriku membetulkan semua pakaianku dengan hati-hati. Ma memasakkan semua makanan favoritku, walau saat itu bukan waktunya untuk bermewah-mewah menyantap daging atau ikan.
Tiga hari sebelum keberangkatanku, istriku bertanya, “Jika hujan turun, apakah kau akan tinggal?”
Aku memaksakan senyum dan mengangguk.
Ujung bibirnya lalu sedikit berkerut. Aku mengambil tangannya dan menggenggamnya, untuk pertama kalinya ini kulakukan, dan menelusuri bekas cengkeraman kuku di kulitnya. Angin bertiup dan membuat dinding kayu kami berderit-derit. Aku berdoa agar hujan turun. Tetapi hujan tidak turun.
Kapal yang akan membawaku adalah kapal barang. Paman dan aku diperbolehkan naik setelah ia membayar sejumlah uang pada awak kapal, selain menjanjikan bantuan selama perjalanan. Mereka meminta agar kami tak membawa terlalu banyak barang.
Istriku mengemasi setengah dari semua pakaianku, dan memastikan pakaian dengan bahan terbaik yang dibawa. Lalu, di tumpukan yang paling atas, ia meletakkan foto keluarga kami.
“Jangan,” kataku, “ini hartamu yang paling berharga.”
Ia tersenyum. “Justru karena itulah kau harus membawanya.”
Jarak ke pelabuhan sangat jauh, maka aku meminta agar keluargaku tidak mengantar. Ma, istriku, dan putraku berdiri di depan rumah kami dan melambaikan tangan perpisahan.
“Kamu sudah besar sekarang. Jaga semuanya baik-baik.”— adalah kata-kata terakhirku kepada putraku.
Ia menangis saat aku naik ke gerobak kuda yang akan membawaku ke pelabuhan.
“Pa!” jerit putraku.
Aku ragu-ragu, tetapi istriku meremas bahu putraku.
“Jangan berulah,” katanya tegas.
Aku mengangguk kepada istriku dan ia mengangguk balik. Aku berpikir ia akan menangis, tetapi tidak. Barulah kusadari bahwa aku sudah menikahi perempuan yang luar biasa.
Begitu kereta meninggalkan desa, air mataku tumpah. Dua lelaki di depanku, sesama penumpang, pura-pura tak melihat.
Paman sudah menunggu di pelabuhan, tetapi ia tampak tak membawa apa pun.
“Mana kopermu?” tanyaku.
“Panjang ceritanya, tetapi aku tak bisa pergi.” Ia menyorongkan sebuah surat kepadaku. “Aku tak punya waktu untuk menulis tentangmu, jadi keluarga kita hanya mengharapkan kedatanganku. Tetapi surat ini akan menjelaskan semuanya. Pergilah, sebelum kapalnya berangkat.”
Paman mendorongku ke sekelompok orang yang beranjak naik ke kapal. Aku masih bingung ketika seorang pria di sebelahku berkata, “Kau beruntung. Kapal ini baru saja menaikkan tarifnya akibat begitu banyak orang ingin pergi. Lelaki tua itu bisa jadi tidak punya cukup uang untuk kalian berdua, maka yang muda dibiarkannya berangkat. Mungkin juga dia khawatir kau akan diambil jika tidak pergi.”
“Diambil? Oleh siapa?”
“Tentara Jepang,” jawabnya. “Mereka sudah mulai mengambili pemuda-pemuda. Memang kau belum dengar?”
Aku hanya mengangkat bahu.
Ia tertawa. “Kau pasti dari desa ya. Namaku Yang. Siapa namamu?”
“Liem.”
“Ayo, ikut.” Ia melingkarkan lengannya ke bahuku. “Akan kuceritakan hal-hal yang menarik.”
Pada malam pertama, aku tak bisa tidur. Yang membuatku terjaga dengan ceritanya tentang tentara Jepang yang berdatangan. Aku sudah pernah mendengar tentang mereka, tetapi tak terpikir jika mereka juga akan mendatangi desa yang kecil dan miskin seperti desaku.
Aku juga belajar dari Yang bahwa nama marga lebih daripada sekadar nama. Marga adalah identitas, tempat kita di masyarakat.
“Saudara-saudaramu yang punya xingshi sama denganmu akan membantumu di mana pun kau berada,” ujarnya. “Biasanya, kerabatmu akan menjemput dan mengenalkanmu kepada klanmu. Lalu kau akan tinggal bersama mereka dan bekerja bersama mereka.”
Barulah kumengerti aku tak tahu apa yang akan aku lakukan di Surabaya. “Bagaimana jika aku tak suka pekerjaannya?”
“Jangan sampai mereka tahu,” ujarnya. “Itu satu-satunya cara untuk bertahan.”
Akhirnya kami tiba di pelabuhan. Ada rasa lega yang aneh saat kuinjakkan kakiku di tanah itu.
Tak lama berselang, semua orang digiring ke kantor polisi. Seorang lelaki yang fasih berbahasa Cina menanyakan nama-nama kami dan mencatatnya. Aku memintanya untuk menuliskan nama pamanku juga. Setelah itu, seorang opsir membawaku ke ruangan yang kecil dan tak berjendela. Ruangan ini penuh sesak oleh kami semua.
Keesokan harinya, beberapa lelaki dipanggil pergi. Kerabatnya menjemput mereka. Kupingku berdiri setiap kali opsir datang dan memanggil nama-nama, namun namaku tak juga dipanggil. Tiga hari berlalu dan akhirnya, hanya tinggal kami berempat.
“Apa yang terjadi jika tak ada yang menjemput?” tanyaku.
Tak ada yang menjawab. Mereka mungkin sama-sama tak pahamnya denganku.
Setiap hari kami diberi sedikit air dan roti keras, macam narapidana. Aku tak dapat tidur dengan baik di atas ubin yang keras dan dingin. Seluruh tubuhku sakit. Aku menghabiskan waktu lama-lama memandangi foto keluargaku. Seharusnya aku berusaha mengenal istriku lebih baik lagi ketika ada kesempatan dulu.
Pada hari kelima, namaku dipanggil. Saat itu, ruang tunggu sudah penuh lagi dengan orang-orang yang baru datang dengan kapal lain dari Cina.
Saat aku keluar, seorang pria berkacamata bertanya, “Apakah kamu kemenakan Liem Hock Leong?”
Aku mengangguk dan menyerahkan surat kepadanya. “Maaf. Paman tak bisa datang.”
Pria itu mengangguk dan mengatur kacamatanya. Ia membuka amplop, membaca surat, dan memasukkannya ke dalam kantongnya. Ia lalu menghampiri opsir dan menyodorkan sebuah amplop kecil. “Anak muda ini ikut bersamaku.”
“Akan kuambilkan dokumen untuk kau tandatangani,” kata opsir dengan senyum penuh arti.
Pria itu memperkenalkan dirinya sebagai Kakak Ong, ia lalu menggiringku ke rumah asosiasi Hockchia. Kami berjalan kaki, naik bus, dan berjalan kaki lagi.
“Maaf kau harus menunggu begitu lama,” kata Kakak Ong. “Suratnya telat datang. Layanan pos akhir-akhir ini sungguh sulit ditebak.”
“Lalu bagaimana kau bisa mengirim uang untuk keluargamu di Cina?”
Ia tertawa dan menepuk punggungku. “Kau kirim saja dengan niat yang baik.”
Surabaya sungguh asing tapi, anehnya, familiar. Orang-orang berkulit gelap luntang-lantung di pasar yang tak jauh berbeda dengan di kota-kota besar di Cina. Para pemilik toko menjajakan dagangannya. Para wanita menawar harga sambil membawa anak-anak mereka. Aku melihat beberapa orang Cina, dan tak seorang pun berkedip saat melihatku.
“Di sini banyak pendatang dari Cina,” jelas Kakak Ong. “Orang-orang Hockchia adalah yang terakhir tiba.”
Aku mengangguk dan mempercepat langkahku. Tak lama kemudian, kami tiba di tujuan kami. Aku memberi salam pada orang-orang dan berdoa di altar. Setelah itu, para tetua mengundangku ke salah satu kamar. Seorang perempuan dengan baju yang asing menghidangkan teh untuk kami. Aku terkejut, saat kulihat wajahnya. Ternyata ia seorang Cina walaupun bajunya menyamarkannya.
Setelah ia pergi, salah satu dari tetua menjelaskan, “Itu istriku. Dia seorang kiau-seng.”
“Itu artinya orang Cina yang sudah mengadopsi budaya lokal,” jelas yang lainnya. “Sebagian besar adalah keturunan lelaki pendatang Cina yang pertama dan perempuan lokal.”
“Kalau kau mau bekerja keras, kau akan bisa hidup enak dan dapat istri juga,” ujar tetua yang pertama.
Wajahku memerah. “Aku sudah punya istri.”
“Kebanyakan dari kami juga,” kata Kakak Ong sambil tertawa.
Aku mengangguk, tak tahu harus bereaksi bagaimana.
Para tetua menjelaskan pekerjaan klan kami. “Kami pendatang baru. Kebanyakan lapangan kerja sudah digarap orang, tapi kami tak menyerah. Kami bekerja keras dan membangun tempat kami sendiri.”
“Klan kita bekerja di bidang apa?” tanyaku.
“Pinjam-meminjam uang. Ada juga toko besi, tapi bukan dari situ keuntungannya.”
Seorang tetua menyesap tehnya. “Kamu tidak berpikir pekerjaan itu terlalu rendah untukmu, kan?”
Tenggorokanku terasa kering.
“Tak ada yang memaksamu untuk melakukan apa-apa. Kalau kau ingin belajar bisnis kami, Ong akan membantumu. Jika tidak, kau bebas pergi.”
Kakak Ong menepuk punggungku. ”Kang Lie, berterima kasihlah pada tetuamu.”
Aku membungkuk sesuai yang diminta, sambil berpikir bagaimana caranya aku bisa bertahan hidup. Seumur hidupku, aku tak pernah berurusan dengan uang dan sangat tergantung kepada Ma mengatur pengeluaran rumah tangga. Setelah kupikir-pikir, aku lumayan dimanja dalam caraku sendiri.
Aku berbagi kamar dengan lima orang pemuda di rumah kongsi, sebelum akhirnya aku punya cukup uang untuk menyewa tempatku sendiri. Surabaya sangat panas dan lembab. Kasur tipis yang kutiduri tidak nyaman dan ada suara lelaki mengorok kencang. Aku selalu gelisah sepanjang malam.
Esok paginya, Kakak Ong menjemputku.
“Kau dapat istirahat dengan baik kah?” tanyanya.
“Dapat,” jawabku. Ucapan sopan yang bisa kau berikan kepada anggota klanmu yang sudah dengan begitu baiknya memberi atap untukmu berlindung.
“Baguslah. Hari ini akan sangat panjang.” Ia memberi tanda agar aku mengikutinya. “Para tetua sudah memintaku untuk mengajarimu jenjang bisnis kita.”
Kami melalui lorong-lorong kecil dan kumuh di mana bocah-bocah berlari-larian setengah telanjang dan perempuan-perempuan menggantung cucian mereka. Kebanyakan dari mereka bukan orang Cina, tetapi Kakak Ong menyapa mereka dengan santai.
“Menjadi rentenir itu profesi yang tidak biasa,” katanya. “Kau harus ramah dan disukai agar orang senang meminjam uang darimu, tapi sekaligus, harus cukup menakutkan sehingga mereka mengembalikan pinjaman lengkap dengan bunganya.”
Aku menatapnya. “Siapa yang berbisnis dengan kita?”
“Siapa pun yang butuh uang,” katanya sambil tertawa. “Ya, semua orang. Tetapi jangan sekali-kali kau berbisnis dengan para pejabat. Bisa mampus kau.”
Setiap pagi Kakak Ong melakukan kunjungannya, menarik dan meminjamkan uang. Pelanggannya mulai dari para pedagang Cina yang perlu modal bisnis hingga para ibu rumah tangga yang berusaha mencukupi kebutuhan di tengah kenaikan biaya hidup. Siangnya, kami pergi ke toko besi milik bos Neo Khiem. Kami setorkan uang yang kami tarik dan membantu-bantu di toko. Selang beberapa waktu, aku pun mulai dipercaya untuk menagih dan meminjamkan uang seorang diri. Aku bahkan mulai bisa berbicara beberapa kalimat dalam bahasa Jawa dan Hokkien.
Beberapa bulan kemudian, aku mendengar kabar bahwa Ma meninggal dunia. Berita itu dikirimkan melalui sebuah surat dari Paman yang memintaku agar tak kembali lagi. “Tentara Jepang ada di mana-mana.”
Aku menatap Kakak Ong yang membantuku membaca surat sebelum ia berlalu. Aku sambangi warung makan di pinggir jalan dan memesan soto mie. Pemiliknya, seorang lelaki Jawa, menghidangkan semangkuk soto berkuah pedas. Aku tambahkan lagi sesendok cabe rawit dan makan dalam diam sambil menangis. Aku merasa puas, tapi hanya sedikit.
Lelaki tua itu meletakkan sebotol teh dingin di depanku.
Aku menengadah. “Saya tidak pesan.”
Ia pura-pura tak mendengar, dan aku tenggak sebotol teh itu dengan penuh kelegaan.
Saat membayar, ia mengatakan minuman tadi cuma-cuma.
“Hidup itu keras,” katanya, “tapi kau sudah memilih untuk berada di sini, jadi bertahanlah.”
Empat bulan kemudian aku berhasil menabungkan cukup uang untuk menyewa tempatku sendiri. Sebuah rumah tua di perkampungan miskin, tapi aku tak soal.
Kakak Ong datang suatu hari dan berbisik kepadaku, ”Bukankah sudah waktunya kau mencari istri?”
“Aku sudah menikah,” kataku, “dan aku punya seorang putra, di Fujian.”
“Begitu juga aku. Aku punya empat putra dan tiga putri.” Ia lalu melipat tangannya di belakang punggung dan memasuki rumahku. Sebelum pergi, ia berkata, “Kabari aku jika kau ingin aku carikan istri.”
“Tentu,” jawabku, aku tahu betul aku takkan mengabarinya.
Tetapi setahun kemudian, aku mengikuti Kakak Ong ke rumah seorang rekan bisnisnya yang kabarnya punya beberapa anak gadis yang belum menikah.
“Putri keduanya sangat cantik.” Kakak Ong mendorong pintu pagar besi berukir hingga terbuka. “Tentunya mereka akan membujukmu untuk menikahi putri tertua mereka, tetapi biarkan aku yang bicara nanti.”
Aku menatap rumah dua lantai itu. Jelas-jelas ini rumah seorang keluarga kiau-seng.
Tuan rumah menyambut kami dan menyilakan masuk. Istrinya menunggu di dekat meja, tersenyum agak gugup. Setelah semua orang duduk, seorang gadis muncul sambil membawa senampan teh.
“Ini Xia Ying, putri sulungku,” kata tuan rumah bangga. “Tahun ini umurnya sembilan belas tahun, dan dia gadis yang sederhana. Dia akan menjadi istri yang baik.”
Sederhana agak terlalu berlebihan, pikirku. Gadis ini sama sekali tidak menarik. Aku tak tahu kenapa persisnya, tetapi jika diamati, wajahnya sama sekali tidak menarik.
“Sebetulnya, kami berharap mendapatkan gadis yang lebih muda,” ujar Kakak Ong. “Kemenakan mudaku ini ingin punya putra yang banyak. Aku sudah melihat Xia Rong. Dia tampak sehat dan penuh energi.”
Raut wajah istri tuan rumah berubah. “Kakak Ong, berhentilah bergurau. Semua itu ada aturannya, urutannya. Anda bisa mendapatkan yang muda jika yang tua sudah menikah.”
Kakak Ong tertawa. “Tentunya itu bisa kita bicarakan, kan?”
Aku menunduk, merasa malu kami membahas persoalan sensitif itu di depan gadisnya langsung. Aku bisa melihat tangannya gemetar saat menuang teh. Ada bekas cengkeraman kuku di sekujur jarinya. Aku menahan nafas dan teringat istri dan anakku.
Aku legakan tenggorokanku. “Tidak apa-apa.”
Semua menatap ke arahku.
“Dia pun tidak apa-apa bagiku,” kataku.
Kakak Ong mendekatkan tubuhnya kepadaku dan aku mengangguk pasti. Aku bisa merasakan keluarga gadis itu menghela nafas lega.
Pernikahan keduaku diselenggarakan kecil-kecilan saja. Kami membungkuk di altar dan menghidangkan teh untuk para tetua, dan cukuplah sudah. Sebuah acara makan malam diadakan di rumah kongsi walaupun itu tak bisa dibilang sebuah pesta.
Saat usianya mencapai dua puluh tahun, istri keduaku sudah terbilang tua. Kabarnya ia lahir pada tanggal yang salah sehingga sulit baginya untuk menemukan pasangan. Adiknya yang lebih menarik darinya tidak membantu nasib perjodohannya. Beberapa minggu setelah kami menikah, adiknya juga langsung menikah. Pernikahannya sangat menguntungkan. Sebuah perayaan besar-besaran diselenggarakan dan keluarganya menjadi makmur. Semua orang mengatakan kepada istriku bahwa keluarganya sangat beruntung mengenal seseorang sepertiku yang rela mengorbankan diri. Tentunya itu tidak benar. Aku pun bukan jodoh yang baik, dan aku merasa iba pada istriku.
Xia Ying seorang pekerja keras seperti istri pertamaku. Bahasa Cinanya tidak fasih, tetapi ia bisa memasak makanan apa pun mulai dari masakan Belanda hingga masakan Indies. Pekerjaan manik-maniknya pun terhalus yang pernah kulihat.
Suatu kali, saat Kakak Ong berkunjung ke rumah kami, istriku meminta diajari menulis dalam huruf Cina.
“Apa yang ingin kau tulis?” tanya Kakak Ong.
“Liem,” jawabnya tanpa keragu-raguan. “Ajari aku cara menulis xingshi suamiku.”
Aku terhenyak. Dari semua huruf Cina, dia memilih untuk menanyakan margaku. Meskipun begitu, karena tak punya pengalaman memegang kuas, sapuannya kasar dan menurut Kakak Ong, “Tak perlulah terlalu kau khawatirkan persoalan ini. Kau harus berkonsentrasi melahirkan putra untuk Kang Lie.”
Aku tak pernah bercakap-cakap yang semestinya dengan istriku. Aku tak pernah membicarakan soal istri pertamaku dan putraku yang kutinggal di Cina. Tentunya dia sudah melihat foto dalam bingkai yang kuletakkan di atas lemari buku di ruang tamu, tetapi ia tak pernah bertanya. Seperti mebel-mebel lainnya di rumah ini, bingkai fotonya tak pernah berdebu.
Pada suatu hari hujan, aku menangkap basah istriku sedang memegangi foto keluargaku. Aku berdehem dan dengan segera diletakkannya kembali foto itu.
“Maaf,” bisiknya.
“Untuk apa? Kau bebas melihatnya.” Kupikir mungkin ini saatnya aku membicarakan dengannya. “Mereka adalah keluargaku di Fujian. Kuharap suatu hari nanti kau dapat bertemu dengan mereka.” Aku putuskan untuk tak menyebutkan soal kematian putra keduaku.
Istri keduaku menatap foto itu lekat-lekat. “Istri pertamamu… seperti apa dia?”
“Dia pendiam,” jawabku. Dia jarang sekali bicara selain dari yang perlu. Dan kurasa karena ia memberiku dua putra, bisa kubilang, “Dan dia seorang istri yang baik.”
“Pasti berat untukmu meninggalkan keluargamu.”
Tenggorokanku tercekat. Tidak, justru sangat mudah. Aku tak punya pilihan, atau setidaknya itulah yang ingin kupercaya.
Seorang putra lahir setahun kemudian, disusul oleh empat putra lagi dan dua putri. Saat ini, istriku sedang hamil anak kedelapan. Perang sudah usai dan Indonesia merdeka, tetapi hidup justru lebih berat.
Rumah kami sudah kami ubah menjadi toko kelontong untuk tambahan penghasilan. Itu sudah bisa mencukupi kebutuhan jika semua pelanggan kami tidak membeli barang dengan kredit. Tetapi semua orang juga miskin. Para pedagang Cina mulai kasak-kusuk untuk kembali pulang ke kampung halaman.
“Kau kok sudah lama tidak memintaku untuk menulis surat satu pun,” ujar Kakak Ong saat kami sedang menjaga toko besi.
“Aku tak punya cukup uang untuk dikirimkan pulang,” kataku,”rasanya tak layak hanya menulisi mereka surat.”
Ia mendesah. Aku memain-mainkan abakus.
“Pemerintah Cina akan mengirimkan kapal,” kata Kakak Ong. “Kau bisa mendaftarkan namamu dan mereka akan membawamu kembali ke kampung halaman. Kudengar situasi di sana sudah mulai membaik sekarang.”
Aku tak menatapnya. “Kau akan pulang?”
Ia menggeleng. “Entahlah. Kita semua kemari karena suatu alasan, bukan?”
“Apakah menurutmu keadaan di sini akan menjadi lebih buruk?”
“Entahlah. Ada banyak ketidakpastian dengan adanya pemerintahan baru ini.”
Kakak Ong benar. Tak lama berselang, pemerintah mengumumkan bermacam alasan untuk mempersoalkan “permasalahan orang Cina” dan mengasimilasi etnis Cina. Sekolah-sekolah Cina dan rumah-rumah kongsi ditutup, kebudayaan dan perayaan Cina hanya bisa dilakukan di balik pintu yang tertutup rapat. Bos kami mengubah nama tokonya menjadi nama berbau Indonesia agar bisnisnya tak terpengaruh.
Lagipula, toko besi sudah selalu kosong, tetapi aku masih suka datang setiap siang. Aku tak terlalu ingin berada di rumah. Sulit melihat keluarga yang tak bisa kuberi makan.
Seorang lelaki muda dari rumah kongsi mampir. “Sudah dengar belum? Pemerintah menginginkan kita berhenti menggunakan nama Cina kita agar kita menggunakan nama Indonesia.”
Kakak Ong memukul meja keras-keras. “Menggelikan! Siapa yang sudi mengganti xingshi mereka?” Ia melihat ke arahku. “Ayo tutup toko. Kita cari kabar lebih banyak. Kau mau ikut?”
Kutelan ludahku bulat-bulat. Aku ingin mengatakan sesuatu, tetapi kata-kata hilang dari mulutku.
“Ah. Lupakan. Pulanglah. Kau tampak kurang sehat. Aku akan kabari setelah aku mendapatkan kabar yang lebih lengkap.”
Kami meninggalkan toko bersama-sama. Aku tak pulang ke rumah. Aku pergi mencari warung soto mie, tetapi tak bisa kutemukan. Kata-kata Ma terngiang di telingaku. “Kau harus menjadi generasi penerus nama keluarga.”
Xingshi bukan sekadar nama. Itu penanda asal-usul kami. Diwariskan turun-temurun dari generasi ke generasi, dari bapak ke putranya. Xingshi kami adalah identitas kami. Jika harus mengorbankan xingshi untuk menetap di sini, rasanya aku lebih baik pergi.
Aku pulang ke rumah karena tak ada pilihan lain. Kudorong pintu pagar dan melihat istriku sedang mengatur beberapa barang di rak.
Ia tersenyum saat melihatku. “Kau pulang cepat.”
Aku membersihkan tenggorokanku. “Dengarkan aku, kita perlu bicara.”
Sebelum aku sempat melanjutkan, anak-anakku berhamburan mengerubungiku.
“Papa pulang,” teriak mereka.
Mereka tertawa dan mengelilingiku.
“Gendong aku, Papa,” kata putra bungsuku.
Aku pun menurut dan yang lainnya protes.
“Aku juga mau, aku juga.”
“Tunggulah giliranmu,” kataku sambil tertawa.
Aku berputar-putar di beranda dengan putraku di bahu sementara yang lainnya mengekor di belakangku. Setelah itu kuturunkan putra bungsuku dan kugendong saudaranya yang lain secara bergiliran. Ini berjalan cukup lama hingga matahari terbenam.
Aku terbaring di lantai kelelahan, sementara anak-anakku masih saja bermain.
“Bagaimana kau bisa tahan dengan mereka setiap hari?” kutanya istriku.
Ia menjawab dengan senyum dan duduk di sebelahku. “Apa yang ingin kau bicarakan?”
Aku terdiam. Jawaban yang tadinya sudah tertanam di pikiranku menguap. Aku pandangi anak-anakku, dan kutatap istriku. Kuraih tangannya dan kugenggamnya. “Siapkan baju bagusku. Besok aku akan pergi ke kantor pemerintah.”
Raut wajahnya berubah. “Ada masalah apa?”
Aku menggeleng. “Kita harus mengubah nama kita.”
“Seperti pada toko?”
Aku memaksakan seulas senyum. “Ya, seperti pada toko.”
© Clarissa Goenawan
English translation © Nataya Bagya
XINGSHI 姓氏
Clarissa Goenawan
Xingshi (姓氏) means surname.
Chinese surnames are passed down from generation to generation, from fathers to sons. One of the most important duties of a wife is to produce a son to continue the family legacy.
My name is Liem Kang Lie. My xingshi is Liem (林), which means forest. I was born in 1917, the year of the snake, and I lived in Fujian with my farmer parents and two brothers.
When I was sixteen, my parents arranged a wedding for me.
“We’re lucky.” Pa wiped the sweat off his forehead with the white towel around his neck. “The girl’s father just passed away, and her mother was desperate to find husbands for her daughters.”
I looked down, fighting the urge not to scrape the floor with my feet. I had a habit of doing that whenever I felt uneasy. Ma didn’t like it, saying it was poor manners.
“Her mother is my aunt’s cousin, and she’s a year older than Kang Lie,” Pa continued. “A matchmaker has confirmed that her birth date and hour are a great fit with Kang Lie’s. They will be blessed with many sons.”
Ma poured tea for Pa. “Does she have siblings?”
Pa nodded. “Three brothers, and some younger sisters.”
I pressed my right toe harder into the gap in-between the wooden floor panels. I hoped the girl would be pretty, but I knew it was unlikely. Our farm was small, and I still had two younger brothers. We couldn’t afford to be picky.
A few days later, my family and I went to my wife-to-be’s house. She lived in a neighboring village. My mother-in-law-to-be raised her eyebrows when she saw how few the betrothal gifts were. Ma, in turn, raised her eyebrow when my sisters-in-law-to-be distributed the bridal cakes.
“Why didn’t you tell me there are six girls?” Ma whispered to Pa after we left their house. “What if the girl cannot bear a son?”
Pa sighed. “How would I know?”
Ma looked down. Pa shook his head and went ahead.
I stopped walking and took another look at my wife-to-be’s house. It was much smaller than ours and in need of serious repair. I could picture water dripping into small bowls and pails whenever it was raining.
“Kang Lie,” my cousin shouted. “What are you staring at?”
I shook my head. “Nothing. I just thought it might rain.”
He looked up at the clear blue sky, devoid of any cloud. I felt dumb. I had made that remark without giving it much thought. Of course, it didn’t rain that afternoon. But it was pouring on the day I got married.
Decked out in hot and heavy red garments, I tried to make out the bride’s face behind the veil. I noticed she was clenching her fists tightly.
After lifting her scarf, I learnt that the girl wasn’t much to look at. She could have been pretty, if not for her overly small nose. Instead of looking at her face, I stared at her hands. She had crescent nail marks all over them.
A year into our marriage, my wife got pregnant. Ma kept fussing over her, expressing her joy at receiving her first grandson and ignoring the haggard smile on my wife’s face. How she could be so sure, I had no idea until I overheard her conversation with my wife.
“Do you think your stomach is pointed or round?” Ma asked. “If it’s pointed, you’re carrying a boy. When you’re pregnant with a girl, your stomach will be round. It’s true. I’ve experienced it myself.”
My wife kept quiet. I wondered why she didn’t point out that Ma never carried a daughter.
“Listen, this is important.” Ma dropped her voice. “You’re not going to give birth to a girl.”
A pause, before my wife said, “What if…”
“If it’s a girl, Auntie Yin is going to take care of it for a small fee.”
My heart skipped a beat.
“But don’t worry, you’re carrying a grandson for me. The matchmaker said that you’re compatible with my Kang Lie, and that you’ll bear him a lot of sons to pass on the xingshi.”
My wife didn’t say a word. I peeked in and saw her clenching her fists tightly, digging her nails into her skin. I left the house and went to the field.
I thought about those sisters my wife had, of their nervous smile when handing out the bridal cakes, and I took a deep breath. The odds were not in my favor.
That morning, I made a promise to myself: if the child was a boy, I would buy my wife a nice bracelet.
My firstborn was a boy, but I forgot about the bracelet.
A few years later, I had another child. A boy, though unlike my first-born, he was sickly. Our village mid-wife said that he probably wouldn’t last a week, so when my second son turned a month old, we decided to do something special.
There was a young man who worked for a newspaper company in the city. Once a week, he visited his old folks in our village. He had a camera so we asked him to take our family photograph.
My wife tidied up the house and we put on our best clothes, but when the man came, he said there wasn’t enough sunlight.
“Let’s take a photograph outside,” he suggested.
I walked with my son as my wife followed, cradling the still red infant. We stood in the middle of the family farm. The land was a sad spectacle. That year, China was hit by a drought. I looked at the cracked soil and asked the young man if we should go somewhere else.
“It’s all right,” he said. “Here is good.”
He instructed us to stand close together, and asked me to put my right hand on my wife’s. He told us to smile, but it was so bright I winced instead.
The young man promised to bring the print the next weekend. When we finally got it, I regretted taking the photograph. My wife spent a long time looking at it. I guess it couldn’t be helped. Our second son died when he was one month and four days old. We burnt all his belongings, but that photograph, my wife carried it with her all the time.
Another year passed, but the drought didn’t end. The land refused to bear fruit. The villagers held a number of rain rituals, but the gods didn’t answer our prayers. Farmers like us had no goods to sell and nothing to eat. People died from hunger and illness, including Pa and my youngest brother. We only managed to survive because my uncle who worked in the city gave us money whenever he could.
One afternoon when he came, Ma knelt in front of him and cried. “Please take Kang Lie with you.”
Uncle quickly told her to stand up. “What do you mean, Sister?”
“If he stays here, sooner or later all of us will die of hunger. Please take him to the city and help him find a job.”
“How can I take him? He’s your firstborn son.”
Ma cried louder. “That’s precisely why you have to take him.”
“Can’t you hang on a while longer? I’m sure it’s going to rain sooner or later.” Uncle glanced at my wife and my young son. “And how can you separate a man from his family?”
My wife got down on her knees. “Mother is right. Please help my husband get a job in the city.”
Uncle sighed and shook his head. “Right now, there’re no jobs there. Plenty of people from the rural areas come to the city, thinking they can find something to do. But businesses aren’t doing well. The drought makes food price exorbitant. Everyone is just barely surviving. No one is hiring.”
Ma glanced at the silk pouch Uncle had left on top of the table. “Then that money…”
Uncle took a deep breath. “It came from the last salary I received from my boss. The shop had been running at a loss for the last couple of months, and the old man finally decided to sell it.”
“I don’t believe it…” Ma went pale. “What will become of us?”
“Let’s just hope the rain comes soon.”
“What about you, Uncle?” I asked. “What are you going to do?”
He gave a weak smile. “I’m planning to leave China. We have relatives in Melaka and Surabaya.”
“You mean…” Ma’s voice cracked. “You’re going to…”
Uncle nodded, and turned to me. “It’s a long journey by ship. We might not be able to make it there, and we don’t know what’s waiting for us. Do you still want to go?”
I swallowed hard. My mind was blank. At that moment, I felt as if the time had stopped. My palms sweated and I couldn’t blink.
My son started to wail. My wife shushed him, asking what happened. He didn’t answer. He probably didn’t know why either. But because of his cry, I found my answer.
I bowed to Uncle. “Please take me with you.”
A ship bound to Surabaya would leave in ten days, while the one to Melaka was due in another month. Because of that, we decided to head to Surabaya.
No one talked about my impending departure, but it was always looming. My wife carefully mended all my clothes. Ma cooked my favorite dishes, even though it wasn’t the time to splurge on expensive meat and fish.
Three days before I left, my wife asked, “If it rains, would you be able to stay?”
I forced a smile and nodded.
The tips of her lips curled up a little. I took her hands and held them in mine, the first time I had ever done so, and traced the crescent marks on her skin. The wind blew and made the wooden wall creak. I said a silent prayer so it would rain. But it didn’t.
The ship I was about to board was for cargo. Uncle and I could come after paying the crew some sum, along with a promise to help out during the voyage. They told us not to bring too many things.
My wife packed half of my clothes, taking care to choose the best garments. Then, on top of the stack, she placed the family photograph.
“You shouldn’t,” I said, “it’s your precious treasure.”
She smiled. “All the more reason you should bring it with you.”
The journey to the harbor was long, so I told my family not to see me off. Ma, my wife, and my son stood in front of our house and we said our goodbyes.
“You’re a big boy now. Take care of everyone.”—those were my last words to my son.
He burst into tears as I stepped into the horse-drawn carriage that would take me to the harbor.
“Pa!” my son screamed.
I hesitated, but then my wife squeezed our son’s shoulders.
“Don’t create a scene,” she said sternly.
I nodded at her and she nodded back. I thought she was going to cry, but she didn’t. It occurred to me that I had married a wonderful woman.
Once the carriage left the village, my tears started pouring. The two men in front of me, my fellow passengers, pretended not to notice.
Uncle was already at the port, but he didn’t seem to bring anything with him.
“Where’s your luggage?” I asked.
“It’s a long story, but I’m not going.” He shoved a letter at me. “There’s no time to write about you, so our relatives are only expecting me. This letter will explain everything. Now go, before the ship leaves.”
Uncle pushed me into the group of men boarding the ship. I was still in a daze when a man next to me said, “You’re lucky. The ship raised the price because there are too many people wanting to leave. That old man probably didn’t have enough money for both of you, so he let the younger man go. He’s probably worried that if you don’t leave now, you will be taken.”
Taken? “By who?”
“The Japanese army,” he answered. “They’ve started taking young men. Didn’t you hear?”
I shrugged.
He laughed. “You must come from a village. My name is Yang. What’s yours?”
“I’m Liem.”
“Come with me.” He put his arm around my shoulders. “I’ll tell you some interesting stuff.”
That first night, I couldn’t sleep. Yang kept me awake with his story of advancing Japanese armies. I had heard of them but I didn’t think they would come to a small, poor village like mine.
I also learnt from Yang that a surname was more than just a name. It was an identity, a place in the community.
“Your brothers who have the same xingshi as you will help you wherever you are,” he said. “Typically, a relative will pick you up and introduce you to your clan. You’ll live with them and work with them.”
It occurred to me that I didn’t know what I would be doing in Surabaya. “What if I don’t like the trade?”
“Then don’t let them find out,” he said. “That’s the only way to survive.”
We finally arrived at the port. A strange relief filled me as I stepped onto the land.
Before long, everyone was ushered to a police office. A Chinese-speaking man asked for our names and noted them down. I asked them to write my uncle’s name too. After that, an officer led me into a small, windowless room. The place was so cramped with so many of us.
Some men were called out the next day. Their relatives had picked them up. My ears perked up every time an officer came and read the names, but mine wasn’t called. Three days passed and finally, only four of us left.
“What happens if no one come?” I asked.
No one answered. They were probably as clueless as I was.
Every day we were only given a small amount of water and stale bread, almost as if we were prisoners. I couldn’t sleep well on the cold, hard concrete. My whole body ached. I spent a lot of time looking at the family photograph. I should have tried to get to know my wife better when I had the chance.
On the fifth day, my name was called. By then, the holding room was once again crowded because another ship from China had arrived.
When I came out, a tall, bespectacled man asked, “Are you Liem Hock Leong’s nephew?”
I nodded and gave him the letter. “I apologize, but Uncle couldn’t come.”
The man nodded and adjusted his glasses. He opened the envelope, read the letter, and slipped it into his pocket. He went to an officer and handed a small envelope. “I’m taking this young man.”
“I’ll get the documents for you to sign,” the officer said with a discreet smile.
Brother Ong, as the man introduced himself, led me to the Hockchia association house. We walked, took a bus, and then we walked again.
“I’m sorry you had to wait so long,” Brother Ong said. “The letter came late. The postal service is unpredictable nowadays.”
“Then how do you send the money back to your family in China?”
He laughed and patted my back. “You send them in good faith.”
Surabaya was foreign, yet oddly familiar. Dark-skinned people loitered in the market not unlike in the big cities in China. Shop owners peddled their goods. Women haggled over prices while carrying their children. I saw some Chinese people, and no one batted an eye when they saw me.
“We’ve got many Chinese immigrants,” Brother Ong explained. “The Hockchia are among the last to arrive.”
I nodded and sped up my pace. Before long, we arrived at our destination. I greeted the people and prayed at an altar. After that, the elders invited me to one of the rooms. A lady in foreign dress came and served us tea. When she looked up, I was surprised. Despite her outfit, she was Chinese.
After she left, one of the elders explained, “That’s my wife. She’s a kiau-seng.”
“That means Chinese who have adopted local customs,” another said. “Most are descendents of early Chinese immigrant men and local women.”
“If you’re hard-working, you can live comfortably and take a wife too,” the first one said.
I flushed. “I already have a wife.”
“Most of us do,” Brother Ong said with a laugh.
I nodded, unsure how to respond.
The elders explained the clan’s trade. “We’re late settlers. Most of the trades are already taken, but we don’t give up. We work hard and carve a place for ourselves.”
“What kind of trade are we in?” I asked.
“Money-lending. We also run some steel shops, but that’s not where the bulk of the profit comes from.”
An elder sipped his tea. “You don’t think the trade is too lowly for you, do you?”
My throat felt dry.
“No one here is forced to do anything. If you wish to learn the trade, Ong will guide you. Otherwise, you’re free to leave.”
Brother Ong patted my back. “Kang Lie, go thank the elder.”
I bowed as instructed, wondering how I was going to survive. I had never dealt with money before and depended on Ma to manage the household expense. Thinking about it, I was privileged in my own way.
Until I earned enough to rent my own place, I shared a room in the association house with five other young men. Surabaya was hot and humid. The thin mattress was uncomfortable and some of the men snored loudly. I tossed around the whole night.
The next morning, Brother Ong picked me up.
“Have you had a good rest?” he asked.
“I did,” I said. It was only polite to say that when your clan kindly provided a roof over your head.
“Good. Today is going to be a long day’s work.” He gestured for me to follow him. “The elders asked me to teach you the ropes of the business.”
We went through small, dingy alleys where children ran around half-naked and women hung their laundry. Most of them were not Chinese, but Brother Ong greeted them with ease.
“Being a moneylender is a delicate profession,” he said. “You need to be friendly and likeable so people will borrow money from you, but at the same time, intimidating enough so that they’ll return what they owe with interest.”
I looked at him. “Who are we doing business with?”
“Anyone who needs money.” He laughed. “Which is basically everyone. But don’t do business with the officials. You’re going to get into trouble.”
Every morning Brother Ong made his rounds, collecting and distributing money. His customers ranged from the Chinese merchants in need of business capital to the local housewives trying to cope with the rising cost of living. In the afternoon, we went to a steel shop owned by Boss Neo Khiem. We dropped off the money we had collected and helped out with the shop. And soon, I was allowed to do my own rounds. I even managed to pick up some phrases in Javanese and Hokkien.
A few months later, I received the news that Ma had passed away. It was delivered in a letter from Uncle who told me not to return. “The Japanese are everywhere.”
I stared at Brother Ong who helped me read the letter before walking away. I headed out to a roadside food stall and ordered a soto mie. The owner, an old Javanese man, handed me a bowl of the spicy noodles. I added a spoonful of chili padi and ate in silence while crying. It felt satisfying, but just a little.
The old man handed me a bottle of iced tea.
I looked up. “I didn’t order it.”
He pretended not to hear, and I gladly gulped it down.
When I paid, he told me the drink was free.
“Life is tough,” he said, “but you’ve chosen to come here, so you have to hang on.”
Four months later I managed to save enough to rent a place. The old house was in a poor neighborhood, but I could live with that.
Brother Ong came with me and whispered, “Isn’t it time for you to get a wife?”
“I’m already married,” I said, “and I have a son too, back in Fujian.”
“So do I. I have four sons and three daughters.” He put his arms behind his back and entered the house. Before he left, he said, “Let me know if you want me to find you a wife.”
“I will,” I said, knowing well I wouldn’t do that.
Yet a year later, I followed Brother Ong into the house of his business partner who had several unmarried daughters.
“The second daughter is quite a beauty.” He pushed open the intricate metal gate. “They will try to persuade you into taking the eldest daughter instead, but I’ll do the talking.”
I stared at the two-story house. It was obvious the family is a kiau-seng.
The man of the house greeted us and led us in. His wife waited at the table, smiling nervously. Once everyone was seated, a young girl walked in with a tray of tea.
“This is Xia Ying, my eldest daughter,” the man said proudly. “She’s nineteen this year, and a simple girl. She will make a good wife.”
To say simple was an overstatement. The girl was rather unattractive. I couldn’t point out the exact reason, but added together, her features weren’t appealing.
“Actually, we hope to get someone younger,” Brother Ong said. “This young man wants to have many sons. I’ve seen Xia Rong. She looks healthy and full of energy.”
The wife’s expression changed. “Brother Ong, stop teasing us. There’s an order in everything. You can’t ask for the younger sister before the elder sister is married.”
Brother Ong laughed. “I’m sure we can discuss that.”
I looked down, feeling ashamed we were discussing such a delicate matter in front of the lady. I could see her hand shaking as she poured the tea. There were crescent marks all over the fingers. I held my breath and thought of my wife and son.
I cleared my throat. “It’s all right.”
Everyone turned to me.
“I’m all right with her,” I said.
Brother Ong leaned towards me and I nodded at him. I could sense the family breathe a sigh of relief.
My second wedding was a small affair. We bowed at the altar and served tea to the elder, and that was all. A dinner was held in the association’s house, though I wouldn’t go so far as calling it a feast.
At twenty, my second wife was considered old. She was born on a bad date so it was hard for her to find a match. Her much more physically attractive younger sisters also didn’t help her cause. Just a few weeks after we got married, her eldest younger sister followed suit. It was an advantageous marriage. A huge celebration was held and the family became prosperous. Everyone told me my wife’s family was lucky to know someone like me who was willing to sacrifice myself. That wasn’t true. I wasn’t such a good catch, and I felt bad for my wife.
Xia Ying was hardworking just like my first wife. Her Chinese wasn’t good, but she could cook various cuisines from Dutch to Indies. Her beadwork was the most exquisite I had ever seen.
Once, when Brother Ong came to our house, she asked him to teach her Chinese characters.
“What do you want to write?” Brother Ong asked.
“Liem,” she answered without hesitation. “Teach me to write my husband’s xingshi.”
I was taken aback. Out of so many Chinese characters, she chose to ask about my surname. Nevertheless, having no experience with brushes, her stroke was rough. According to Brother Ong, “This is not something you should concern yourself with, anyway. You should concentrate on quickly giving Kang Lie a son.”
I never had a proper conversation with my wife. I never talked about my first wife and son back in China. She would have seen their framed photograph on top of a cabinet in the living room, but she never asked. Just like the rest of the furniture, the frame was never dusty.
One rainy day, I caught my second wife holding my family photograph. I cleared my throat and she quickly put it back.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“What for? You’re free to look at it.” I figured I should at least talk about it once. “They’re my family in Fujian. I hope one day you can meet them.” My younger son’s death, I decided not to mention.
My second wife stared intently at the photograph. “Your first wife… What kind of person is she?”
“She’s quiet,” I answered. She seldom talked beyond what was necessary. And I supposed since she gave me two sons, I could also say, “And she’s a good wife.”
“It must be hard for you to leave your family.”
I felt a lump in my throat. No, it was easy. I hadn’t had the choice, or at least that was what I wanted to believe.
A son came a year later, followed by four sons and two daughters. My wife was now pregnant with our eighth child. The war ended and Indonesia gained independence, but life was tougher.
We converted our house into a sundry shop to earn extra income. It would have solved the problem if not for the fact that most of our customers bought items on credit. Everyone else was poor too. The Chinese merchants were whispering about returning to the homeland.
“You haven’t been asking me to write any letters,” Brother Ong said when we were manning the steel shop.
“I don’t have money to send back,” I said, “so I don’t feel right writing to them.”
He sighed. I absent-mindedly played with the abacus.
“The Chinese government is sending a ship,” Brother Ong said. “You can submit your name and they’ll bring you back to the motherland. I heard the situation is much better now.”
I didn’t look at him. “Are you returning?”
He shook. “I’m not sure. All of us came here for a good reason, didn’t we?”
“Do you think it’s going to get worse?”
“I don’t know. There are a lot of uncertainties because of the new government.”
Brother Ong was right. Shortly after, the government came out with various measures to address the “Chinese problem” and assimilate ethnic Chinese. Chinese schools and associations were shut down, and Chinese customs and celebrations were hidden behind closed doors. Our boss changed the shop’s name to an Indonesian-sounding one to make sure the business wouldn’t be affected.
Anyway, the steel shop was always empty, but I still went there in the afternoon. I didn’t really want to go home. It was hard to look at the family I couldn’t feed.
A young man from the association stopped in. “Have you heard? The government wants us to stop using Chinese names and adopt an Indonesian name.”
Brother Ong banged the table. “That’s ridiculous. Who’s going to change their xingshi?” He turned to me. “Let’s close the shop. I’m going to find out more information. Do you want to go with me?”
I swallowed hard. I wanted to say something, but I was at a loss for words.
“Forget it. You should go home. You don’t look that good. I’ll find you once I have the whole picture.”
We left the shop together. I didn’t return home. I looked for the soto mie stall, but I couldn’t find it. Ma’s words rang in my ears. “You need to carry on the family’s legacy.”
Xingshi is not just a surname. It’s our ancestry. Passed down from generation to generation, from fathers to sons. Our xingshi is our identity. If I had to abandon my xingshi to stay here, I would rather leave.
Left with no choice, I headed home. I pushed open the gate and saw my wife arranging some goods on the shelf.
She smiled when she saw me. “You’re home early.”
I cleared my throat. “Listen, we need to talk.”
Before I could continue, my children came, swarming me.
“Papa is home,” they shouted.
They laughed and circled me.
“Carry me, Papa,” my youngest son asked.
I obliged, and the rest protested.
“Me too, me too.”
“Wait for your turn,” I said, laughing.
I made a round on the porch with my son on my shoulders while the rest ran around me. After that, I put the child down and took one of his siblings. It went for a long time until the sun set.
Exhausted, I fell on the floor while my children were still playing.
“How do you manage to keep up with them every day?” I asked my wife.
She answered with a smile and sat next to me. “What is it that you wanted to tell me?”
I paused. The answer that had been firmly planted on my mind had evaporated. I stared at my children, and turned to my wife. I reached for her hand and held it. “Prepare a nice set of clothes for me. Tomorrow I’m going to go to the government office.”
Her expression changed. “Is there a problem?”
I shook my head. “We just have to change our names.”
“Just like the shop?”
I forced myself to smile. “Yes, just like the shop.”
© Clarissa Goenawan
CLARISSA GOENAWAN is an Indonesian-born Singaporean writer and translator. Her award-winning short fiction has appeared in literary magazines and anthologies in Singapore, Australia, Japan, Indonesia, the UK, and the US. Rainbirds, her first novel, has been published in eleven different languages.
NATAYA BAGYA has been a playwright since 2007, a screenwriter since 2010, and translator and writer for the longest time. She also founded Heha Production (@hehaproduction) in April 2019, a theater company and a non-formal acting and performing arts studio for aspiring and skills-hungry actors.
SUKUTANGAN is a collective that consists of the couple Genta Shimaoka and Sekar Wulandari Yogaster, who work a lot with books. They make illustrations, design covers, do layouts, and perform editorial tasks, such as writing, editing, and translating. Sukutangan has been working for almost four years, producing five to ten cover designs every month. They’ve designed covers for books published by major and independent publishers, from literary works to translated popular novels.
This short story is published as part of InterSastra’s UNREPRESSED series.
#Unrepressed
#InterSastra