Thirty seconds ago, Buana had still been turning over strategies in his mind, thinking of the fastest and most effective way to kill someone—a tasteless poison that could dissolve completely, a thin dagger that could pierce the heart without a sound, or perhaps an accident that looked natural. He considered the exact point, direction, pressure, and attack, with no trace, no witnesses, and nothing suspicious. But then he remembered where he was now and began thinking about how to survive the boredom that was nearly killing him at this very moment.
Chants echoed through the air, a low din like a swarm of frogs in the rice fields after rain. His stomach churned—whether from hunger or disgust, he couldn't tell. The people around him looked like headless chess pieces, standing in neat rows without really knowing where they would be moved.
Up front, a man in a batik shirt spoke passionately while the audience nodded, their expressions as empty as the contents of his speech. Boring.
“Ladies and gentlemen, it's time for us to take a step forward! The rural roads we travel are full of potholes, poorly lit, and nowhere near acceptable. Just yesterday afternoon, I had a hard time getting through them myself! We need change!” The man, Mr. Ahmad Buyani, swept his gaze across the audience, as though making sure everyone was listening. His stare made Buana nauseous, but he had no choice except to listen to the man's rambling.
“A thriving village and a progressive city are all shaped by the vision and mission of their leaders! Do you agree?!”
The people around him shouted again. Some were merely joining in, while others nodded sleepily, fighting to stay awake. Buana watched them one by one, overcome by unbearable boredom.
Buana gave a crooked smile. The speech was nothing but hot air, he thought. Buana was certain Mr. Ahmad was no more than a man who liked showing off ideas without taking real action, just like the council members sitting over there. Earlier, a resident had complained about the damaged roads in his village. What had he done? Merely asked where they were and taken notes. And those notes would surely remain nothing more than “notes,” with no guarantee that anything would ever be done. If there was any action at all, it would probably happen only if summer in this country turned into winter.
A man in a threadbare yellow scarf shouted loudly whenever the chants were led, but as soon as the speech began, he got absorbed in gossiping with his companion. In another corner, a skinny man nearly toppled over from sleepiness, his head bobbing like a pigeon perched on a clothesline. Yet every time a cheer rang out, it was as though an automatic switch brought him back to life.
Buana grabbed a bottle of mineral water, poked a straw through it, and took a sip. Apparently, studying these people's behavior was hard on his throat.
“Want some coffee?”
A pat on his back made him turn around. Akmal. The acne-scarred young man held out a cup of black coffee. Buana nodded.
Akmal was still young, twenty-two years old, attending college while also working as an employee, an assistant, or whatever they called the person carrying out assignments for Mr. Ahmad Buyani—the regional legislator who was planning to run for executive office.
Mr. Ahmad Buyani had already served two terms as an elected representative from Jawa Tengah. That meant he had spent a decade sitting in that cushy seat—a seat that, apparently, still hadn't satisfied him. Political ambition was like lust that kept chasing after the sight of a beautiful position, he'd said when they first met in Jakarta.
Eka, the scrawny editor who had offered Buana this job, had also talked about political ambition: being a killer was more satisfying than merely supervising a killer's work. If there was sin, the sin was the same, but if there was money to be made, the money was different. Buana thought the analogy worked for political office. Those officials who only sat in the legislature could do nothing but shout advice and offer oversight, whereas in the executive branch, the decision-makers were the ones who would receive the praise—and perhaps the projects that came pouring in. That was why Ahmad Buyani was trying to gamble on winning an executive position. A killing drive, Buana called it, but Eka disagreed.
Eka had offered him the job a month earlier, when he found Buana drinking in a cheap bar.
“This is a great offer for you, asshole! You need to sharpen your writing instincts again. It's been a long time since you wrote anything!”
Buana had only stayed silent, unwilling to answer. Even without an answer, Eka surely understood.
“Instead of being stuck with writer's block all the time, why not take the job? He's bound to spend big. The guy's ambitious, after all.”
“I've never written about politics,” I said, blowing smoke toward the ceiling of the room.
“Mr. Ahmad isn't asking for the political side of it. Quite the opposite. He wants you to write about his achievements during his two terms. Something to educate his supporters. So it's not purely political.”
“It still has to do with politics. Especially if I have to keep praising them. Become their dog. No way!” Buana didn't want anything to do with politicians.
“Fine, whatever, asshole. When I met Mr. Ahmad yesterday, he mentioned wanting to write a book. I immediately thought of you. I know what you're capable of.” Eka paused for a moment. “You didn't ask how much it pays?”
He said nothing. He knew a ghostwriter's fee wasn't cheap. But Buana didn't really know the actual figure, since he'd never worked in that field before.
“I asked for sixty million. Forty-five for you, fifteen for me. Clean. He'll cover the accommodations. I'll cover your living expenses. Think about it, Na.” Eka looked at him.
Buana took a deep drag of his cigarette and held it for a moment, giving Eka's words time to sink into his ears. Forty-five million, he repeated in his mind. It was a very large sum, some of which he might be able to give Amelia—he still found it difficult to call her his ex. He hadn't sent any money to Aurelie, his daughter, in months.
His savings were completely gone. After divorcing a year ago, he had drifted around like a scavenger. Wake up late, find food, sleep, find food, sleep, find food, and sleep again. He hadn't produced a single piece of writing or done anything meaningful. Buana felt too ashamed to face his ex-wife. Damn it! He truly hated putting that ex- in front of her.
Meanwhile, the money from this writing offer was incredibly tempting. One book, written while accompanying the client at his activities, could replace the sales of two of his novels. He desperately needed money.
An uncomfortable silence hung in the air. Eka sat back down and leaned against the chair, waiting for an answer. Buana felt trapped between giving in and crushing his own pride. There was a strong reason he hated politicians, police officers, and similar professions so much. But…
Eka stood, picked up the scattered food wrappers, and threw them away. When he turned back, Buana muttered, “I'll take it.”
Eka patted my shoulder. “You're meeting Mr. Ahmad tomorrow. Get ready,” he said. Then he said goodbye.
Buana knew something was wrong. His instincts told him so, but he chose to ignore them. Because as it turned out, something far worse was waiting for him. Here.