The First Dream in Another Language

It happened on a Tuesday in late November, nine years after Nazira had stepped off the train with two suitcases and a dictionary she had never needed to open twice. She woke at ten to five with the dream still around her like the warmth of the bed. In it she had been standing at a bus stop, talking to the neighbour from the flat below about the delay, the cold, and a parcel delivered to the wrong building. Not a word of it had passed through her mother tongue on the way. The neighbour had spoken, and she had answered, quickly and a little wittily, in the language of the country.

Peristiwa itu terjadi pada suatu hari Selasa di akhir November, sembilan tahun setelah Nazira turun dari kereta dengan dua koper dan sebuah kamus yang tak pernah perlu ia buka dua kali. Ia terbangun pukul lima kurang sepuluh dengan mimpi yang masih melingkupinya seperti kehangatan tempat tidur. Dalam mimpi itu ia berdiri di halte bus, bercakap dengan tetangga dari flat di bawahnya tentang keterlambatan, cuaca dingin, dan paket yang salah dikirim ke gedung lain. Tak sepatah kata pun melewati bahasa ibunya. Sang tetangga berbicara, dan ia menjawab, dengan cepat dan sedikit jenaka, dalam bahasa negeri ini.

For years she had imagined this moment as a victory. Her teachers had called it the finish line: the day you dream in it, they had said, you will know it belongs to you. Lying in the dark with the radiator ticking, Nazira waited for the pride to arrive. What came instead was a quiet, sinking sensation, as if she had put her foot on a stair that was not there.

Selama bertahun-tahun ia membayangkan saat ini sebagai kemenangan. Para gurunya menyebutnya garis akhir: pada hari kamu bermimpi dalam bahasa itu, kata mereka, kamu akan tahu bahwa bahasa itu menjadi milikmu. Berbaring dalam gelap dengan radiator berdetik, Nazira menunggu rasa bangga itu datang. Yang datang justru perasaan tenang yang menenggelamkan, seolah ia menginjakkan kaki pada anak tangga yang tidak ada.

Not until that moment had it occurred to her that a mind has only so many hours of night. If she had been told at the start that the new language would one day take over her sleep, she might well have studied less hard. But then she would not have this job, this narrow flat, or the neighbour who had never once guessed how much effort lay under her polite small talk. She could not decide which loss to mourn first, so she mourned neither, and got up.

Sampai saat itu ia belum pernah terpikir bahwa sebuah pikiran hanya punya sekian jam dalam semalam. Seandainya sejak awal ada yang mengatakan bahwa bahasa baru itu suatu hari akan mengambil alih tidurnya, mungkin ia akan belajar tak sekeras itu. Tetapi kalau begitu ia tak akan memiliki pekerjaan ini, flat sempit ini, atau tetangga yang tak pernah menduga betapa besar usaha yang tersembunyi di balik basa-basinya yang sopan. Ia tak bisa memutuskan kehilangan mana yang harus lebih dulu ia ratapi, jadi ia tidak meratapi keduanya, dan bangun.

Having made tea she did not want, she sat at the kitchen table and called her mother. It was nearly noon there. Her mother always picked up on the second ring and never the first, so as not to seem eager, and the small delay had become one of the most familiar sounds in Nazira's life.

Setelah membuat teh yang tidak ia inginkan, ia duduk di meja dapur dan menelepon ibunya. Di sana hampir tengah hari. Ibunya selalu mengangkat pada dering kedua dan tak pernah pada dering pertama, supaya tidak tampak bersemangat, dan jeda kecil itu telah menjadi salah satu bunyi yang paling akrab dalam hidup Nazira.

"Are you eating?" her mother said, in the old language, without a greeting.

"Kamu makan?" kata ibunya, dalam bahasa lama, tanpa salam.

"Yes."

"Ya."

"Properly?"

"Yang benar?"

"Properly." Nazira turned the cup between her palms. "Mama, I dreamed in it. The whole dream. Nothing in ours."

"Yang benar." Nazira memutar cangkirnya di antara telapak tangan. "Mama, aku bermimpi dalam bahasa itu. Seluruh mimpinya. Tak ada satu pun dalam bahasa kita."

The silence that followed was the long kind, with the faint hiss of distance in it. She could hear, behind it, a kettle and the radio her mother kept on for company. She waited to be congratulated. She was not sure she wanted to be.

Keheningan yang menyusul adalah jenis yang panjang, dengan desis tipis jarak di dalamnya. Di baliknya ia bisa mendengar ketel dan radio yang dinyalakan ibunya sebagai teman. Ia menunggu untuk diberi selamat. Ia tidak yakin apakah ia menginginkannya.

"Who was in it?" her mother asked at last.

"Siapa saja yang ada di mimpi itu?" tanya ibunya akhirnya.

"The neighbour. We were waiting for a bus."

"Tetangga. Kami sedang menunggu bus."

"And what did she call you?"

"Dan dia memanggilmu apa?"

It was an odd question, and it took Nazira a moment to find the answer. In the dream the neighbour had said her name the way the country said it, with the weight on the wrong part, flattening the middle, and Nazira had answered to it without a flicker. In the waking world she still winced, a little, every time.

Itu pertanyaan yang aneh, dan Nazira butuh beberapa saat untuk menemukan jawabannya. Dalam mimpi itu sang tetangga mengucapkan namanya seperti cara negeri itu mengucapkannya, dengan tekanan pada bagian yang keliru, melesapkan bagian tengahnya, dan Nazira menjawabnya tanpa berkedip. Di dunia nyata ia masih meringis, sedikit, setiap kali.

"She said it wrong," she said slowly. "And I answered anyway."

"Dia mengucapkannya salah," katanya perlahan. "Dan aku tetap menjawab."

"Hm," her mother said. It was impossible to tell whether it was a comfort or a verdict. "Well. Eat something. It's cold there, you said."

"Hm," kata ibunya. Mustahil mengetahui apakah itu hiburan atau vonis. "Ya sudah. Makanlah sesuatu. Katamu di sana dingin."

"It is."

"Memang dingin."

"Then I'll ring on Sunday."

"Kalau begitu Mama telepon hari Minggu."

After the call, Nazira sat without moving until the tea had stopped steaming. Outside, the first grey of morning was finding the windows of the building opposite. Then she said a word aloud into the empty kitchen, the old, soft one her mother had used for the room where the family ate, not the country and not the house. She said it once, and waited, as one presses a bruise to find out whether it is still there.

Setelah panggilan itu, Nazira duduk tak bergerak sampai tehnya berhenti mengepul. Di luar, kelabu pertama pagi hari menemukan jendela-jendela gedung di seberang. Lalu ia mengucapkan sebuah kata keras-keras ke dapur yang kosong, kata lama yang lembut yang dipakai ibunya untuk ruangan tempat keluarga makan, bukan untuk negeri dan bukan untuk rumah. Ia mengucapkannya sekali, dan menunggu, seperti orang menekan memar untuk mengetahui apakah masih ada di sana.