The Light in the East Wing

Simone's new bedroom faced the courtyard, and the courtyard faced the east wing, and it was there, on her third night in the building, that she first noticed the light.

Kamar tidur baru Simone menghadap ke halaman dalam, dan halaman dalam itu menghadap ke sayap timur, dan di sanalah, pada malam ketiganya di gedung itu, ia pertama kali memperhatikan lampu itu.

It came on at exactly six-forty, stayed lit for eleven minutes, and went out. The next evening it did the same. Having nothing better to do in a city where she knew no one yet, Simone started timing it, convinced she had found a pattern worth solving. Six-forty came to feel less like a coincidence and more like an appointment somebody was keeping with an empty room.

Lampu itu menyala tepat pukul enam empat puluh, tetap menyala selama sebelas menit, lalu padam. Malam berikutnya lampu itu melakukan hal yang sama. Karena tak punya kegiatan lain di kota tempat ia belum mengenal siapa pun, Simone mulai mencatat waktunya, yakin telah menemukan pola yang layak dipecahkan. Pukul enam empat puluh terasa makin bukan kebetulan, melainkan janji temu yang ditepati seseorang dengan sebuah ruangan kosong.

She mentioned it to her mother, who barely looked up from unpacking boxes. "That's Mr. Renner's flat. Poor man lost his wife last spring. Leave him be."

Ia menyebutkannya kepada ibunya, yang nyaris tak mendongak dari membongkar kardus. "Itu flat Pak Renner. Kasihan, istrinya meninggal musim semi lalu. Biarkan saja dia."

Simone did not leave him be, not entirely. She noticed him some mornings in the courtyard, a tall, unhurried man who watered a single pot of geraniums and nodded at neighbors without quite meeting their eyes. It was hard to picture him running any kind of code from that window, and harder still to imagine what message he could possibly be sending, or to whom.

Simone tidak membiarkannya, tidak sepenuhnya. Ia melihat Pak Renner beberapa pagi di halaman dalam, seorang pria jangkung yang tak tergesa-gesa, yang menyirami satu pot geranium dan mengangguk kepada para tetangga tanpa sungguh-sungguh menatap mata mereka. Sulit membayangkannya mengirim kode apa pun dari jendela itu, dan lebih sulit lagi membayangkan pesan apa yang mungkin ia kirim, atau kepada siapa.

By the second week she had a theory: Morse. She spent an evening with her phone propped against the glass, timing the light against a Morse chart she had found online, certain she was about to crack something. The intervals refused to cooperate. Nothing spelled out a word, a name, or anything resembling one. What had looked so deliberately structured from across the courtyard turned out, on close counting, to have no code in it at all — only the same eleven minutes, every evening, without variation.

Pada minggu kedua ia punya teori: sandi Morse. Ia menghabiskan satu malam dengan ponsel disandarkan ke kaca, mencocokkan waktu lampu itu dengan tabel Morse yang ia temukan di internet, yakin sebentar lagi akan memecahkan sesuatu. Selang waktunya menolak bekerja sama. Tak ada yang membentuk kata, nama, atau sesuatu yang menyerupainya. Apa yang tampak begitu terstruktur dengan sengaja dari seberang halaman ternyata, setelah dihitung dengan cermat, sama sekali tak mengandung kode, hanya sebelas menit yang sama, setiap malam, tanpa variasi.

It was a chance encounter by the mailboxes that finally explained it, not her spreadsheet of timings. Mr. Renner was struggling with a stuck lock, and Simone held the door while he wrestled his key free.

Pertemuan kebetulan di dekat kotak surat yang akhirnya menjelaskannya, bukan lembar hitungan waktunya. Pak Renner kesulitan dengan kunci yang macet, dan Simone menahan pintu sementara pria itu bergulat melepaskan kuncinya.

"You're the girl who watches my window," he said, not unkindly, and she felt her face go hot. "My wife worked the evening shift for thirty years. Six-forty was when her train got in. I'd put the lamp on so she could see the flat was lit from the platform, and I'd leave it on until she was through the door."

"Kamu gadis yang memperhatikan jendela saya," katanya, tanpa nada menyalahkan, dan Simone merasa wajahnya panas. "Istri saya bekerja shift malam selama tiga puluh tahun. Pukul enam empat puluh adalah saat kereta istri saya tiba. Saya menyalakan lampu supaya ia bisa melihat dari peron bahwa flat kami terang, dan saya membiarkannya menyala sampai ia masuk lewat pintu."

"And now?" Simone asked, before she could think better of it.

"Dan sekarang?" tanya Simone, sebelum sempat berpikir lebih baik.

"Now I put it on anyway," he said, "and I leave it on for exactly as long as it used to take her to walk from the station. Then I turn it off, because by then, in my head, she's home."

"Sekarang saya tetap menyalakannya," katanya, "dan saya membiarkannya menyala selama persis waktu yang dulu ia butuhkan untuk berjalan dari stasiun. Lalu saya mematikannya, karena pada saat itu, di benak saya, ia sudah di rumah."

Simone did not know what to say to that, so she said nothing, which turned out to be the right choice. Had she pressed him further, she suspected, he would have stopped telling her anything at all.

Simone tak tahu harus berkata apa, jadi ia tak berkata apa-apa, yang ternyata pilihan yang tepat. Seandainya ia mendesak lebih jauh, ia menduga, Pak Renner akan berhenti bercerita sama sekali.

She never mentioned the light again, not to her mother, not to Mr. Renner himself. But most evenings now, at six-forty, she found some reason to be near her own window. She left her own lamp on until his went dark, a small and useless signal that nobody had asked her to send.

Ia tak pernah menyebut lampu itu lagi, tidak kepada ibunya, tidak kepada Pak Renner sendiri. Tetapi hampir setiap malam sekarang, pukul enam empat puluh, ia menemukan alasan untuk berada di dekat jendelanya sendiri. Ia membiarkan lampunya sendiri menyala sampai lampu pria itu padam, sebuah isyarat kecil dan tak berguna yang tak diminta siapa pun untuk ia kirim.