The Cremation House (Part 3 — end)
A group of people talk about death, but only one really understands it. It’s because he’s already dead.
Then I thought back to the case of the fire in the dense housing estate where I used to live. “I almost died once. The girl who owned the house next to my father’s burned herself while dancing. She looked happy. But the crowded neighborhood where I lived became a riot. Everyone saved themselves; even my mom got burned in the face for saving me.”
“And then?”
“There was no ‘then.’ Only life slowly became more and more monotonous. Mom still did the usual domestic things. Cooking, washing, and raising me until the days before she passed away. My father followed her. He couldn’t bear to be left alone in this world, especially since I would have my own life later. He didn’t want to die in a nursing home, so he tried taking sleeping pills several times. His attempts always failed. However, what killed him was a blurry rearview mirror. He was about to turn right when a truck came out of nowhere.”
Silence fell among the members of the Cremation House club. No one was interested in interrupting my story. All listened to me intently as if this story was just like an ordinary story. In fact, it’s not a beautiful fairy tale. It’s just a story about the dead.
I cleared my throat softly and continued. “For me, fire is a blaze of joy and purification. Only by being in the fire I can feel how people still have fun even when death spreads. Imagine if you were drowning. Would you ever rejoice as your lungs filled with water? You only think about how painful it is for the salty sea water to enter your nose and pierce the respiratory cavity. You half-die to open your eyes in the depths of the sea, but your eyes sting. You wish you’d died right away, eaten by a shark or whatever. You don’t want to linger in the water. It doesn’t feel good.”
“That’s right,” replied a member of the discussion group. He continued, “Even with hanging yourself, your death is unpleasant. You can’t enjoy it because when your neck is entangled, you die instantly. Gasping for a while, eyes wide open. Not beautiful.”
“Yes, it’s like that. As for the fire? It spreads, it surrounds us, but it lets people watch their last moments in the midst of the flames. The ceiling frames of the house fall, the wooden doors break, the curtains burn, the sofas and carpets like deciduous leaves, and everything in front of you seems to metamorphose. Yet, the fire remains calm all around, not touching you until you can no longer enjoy anything. Next thing you know, you’re already dead.”
“If I can, and I hope I can, I just want to die while sitting down smoking. Then, I was watching television and forgot to put out the lighter, which burned the paper in the plastic ashtray. At first, it was just a small flame. Quietly, the fire spread to the tablecloth, to the carpet, to the curtains on the window. All the while, I was engrossed in watching a romantic comedy on television, occasionally smoking another cigarette, then drinking coffee and giggling happily. The television switches to other entertainment, action heroes with Tom Cruise or Bruce Willis. Or there were three Jason Bourne series on the television to the point where I didn’t care about the smoke that filled my room,” I continued.
“I probably dozed off for a while until who knows what time and woke up when I suddenly heard the village guard shouting, ‘There’s smoke! There’s smoke from that house!’ and everyone would be running for their lives, but afraid to get close to my house or to make sure that no one had died in my house. They could probably only cry out in pity or hope they didn’t have the same fate as me. I was quite happy to see them sympathize with me so much, but that’s okay. After all, it’s just a purifying fire,” I concluded.
Ale clapped softly, followed by the applause of the rest of the club members. He looked at his watch and said, “Okay. Since it’s Saturday night and I’m sure some of you have other appointments already, I’ll end our get-togethers here. Next Saturday, we’ll meet here again at the same time. Prepare your most exciting stories to share. Thank you for coming to the Cremation House, and be careful on the way.”
“Thank you, Ale!” exclaimed several club members in unison. They stood, shook hands with Ale, and exchanged pleasantries for a while before finally leaving the empty room in the old building we made our headquarters.
Meanwhile, I remained seated on my chair and smoked a cigarette. I’m waiting for Ale to finish cleaning the club’s meeting area. And then, we will go home together under the full moon tonight.
At the bus stop near the club, we sat waiting for the bus to come. I tightened my jacket and occasionally exhaled to dispel the cold. Ale stood beside me, shoving his hands into his trouser pockets. The atmosphere of the streets is so quiet, not so many vehicles passing by. From a distance, the sound of motorbikes and cars speeding could be heard—the sound of the city bustle.
“Give me your cigarettes,” I said shamelessly.
Ale chuckled even though he must have kept his hand out of his trouser pocket, then went into the shirt pocket on the left and took out a pack of cigarettes from there.
“Come on. You’ll get sick again. Coughing up blood,” joked Ale.
I took a cigarette and lit it. “It’s so quiet. What time is it?”
“It’s only ten o’clock at night.”
“Ah, crap. I thought it was almost twelve o’clock.”
“Don’t be so hasty. I still want to see your face like this. At the same time, I memorize it too.”
I chuckled, showing my slightly yellowed teeth. Then, I replied, “So, have you found my body at the cremation house or something? Or was it in the rubble?”
Ale shook his head. “I’m an angel of death, not a census taker! Besides, I already told you that in these forty-nine days, if you can’t remember where you died anymore, I have to drag you to hell as a wandering ghost.”
“Well, I’m sorry. I don’t remember the location of the fire. I only know there was a fire, and I was lying down smoking while watching the TV. I’ve already told you before that holding an FGD like this won’t help me. I’m not a mentally ill person. I’m not traumatic, and I can’t remember anything at all.”
“What if you tried hypnosis next time?”
“What a joke! You’re such a weird angel of death! How can hypnosis work for a wandering spirit who turns into an evil spirit every midnight like me?”
Ale took a cigarette and lit it, then sighed in confusion. The angel of death looked up at the sky and said, “In two days, your forty-nine days limit will run out. If you don’t find yourself soon to be buried, you will remain in emptiness. After a while, you will also lose your identity.”
“It’s okay. I told you anyway, didn’t I? I just want to be alone.”
“That’s up to you. I don’t want to give you any more advice.”
I solemnly puffed out my last cigarette like this was all I knew and would remember before turning into a wandering ghost. I don’t even care where I go after twelve at night—just emptiness, maybe, as Ale said.
(end)
This story was originally published in the Indonesian language as “Rumah Kremasi” in my short story anthology entitled “Rumah Kremasi” (The Cremation House), published by Maneno Books in 2018.
Ayu Welirang is the author of several books written in the Indonesian language. She’s also writing crime fiction and translating some classic detective stories into the Indonesian language in her spare time. Want to treat her to coffee? Visit ko-fi.com/ayuwelirang
