Showing posts with label Italy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Italy. Show all posts

Thursday, January 28, 2010

Those Three Months, I Remember



As I was walking down this narrow lane of Perugia
Stepping slowly on cobblestones that were set centuries ago
When all of the sudden I was almost ran down by this blue Vespa
Shocked and surprised, I screamed out foul words until this old Italian lady yelled, “Silenzio!”

She made gesture as if flicking a lamp’s switch off
Continued with another sign :
Sliding her thumb and forefinger across her lips as if shutting a zipper

I definitely got the message, didn’t need to ask her
That was a simple gesture I learned in kindergarten over 25 years ago
When our teacher wanted us to shut up and sit down quietly
Before starting the ritual of saying Lord’s Prayer

Instead I waved my left hand that wasn’t holding the brown umbrella
“Mi scusi, Signora,” said I, and walked away hurriedly
Surprised by my own ashamed feeling of having no guts to face this stern old Italian lady
Oh, I haven’t told you it was raining drizzly that day, eh?

A little trivia : I turned 30 that year
So I decided to give myself a birthday present
It was a 3 months vacation to Italy
The country that gave birth to a grand man
That millenniums later is known universally as an operation technique he was named after

It was surely the most amazing 3 months of my life
Good time partying with young people, citizen of the world
Strolling down traditional market, pocketful of loose changes with no idea what to buy
Flirting using sign language with a beautiful girl whose sad face framed with auburn locks,
Because she doesn’t speak English, and deaf ever since five

I can guarantee you, what a feat it was
Intellectually challenging, such a test to patience
Yet we could still find ways to communicate and
To share this love that knows no boundaries of races, religions or political views

It was the most amazing 3 months in my life
Because I could forget all my worries back home
Leaving them behind, and only have tomorrows to look upon
It was the time when horizon seems far enough, yet within reach

It was still a jolly good time when the last day finally arrived
As I sat down on Leonardo da Vinci airport’s cold steel bench
These random thoughts passing through my mind like cold wind blown from the sea,
“Hope I can return to this magnificent country, which cities are as old as civilization itself,”
“Hope that when I return, I will fall in love all over again with the beautiful life Italy has to offer ..."

“Oh, shoot! Hope I didn’t impregnate that beautiful deaf girl!”

Ah, questa dolce Vita!






Photo illustration courtesy of C.G. Salon in Fayetteville, Georgia, U.S.A.
Used for non-commercial purpose without permission.

Friday, October 5, 2007

"I do not love you ..."

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.



I do not love you ... is a poem written around 1950s by Chilean poet, Pablo Neruda, as the 17th Love Sonnets in his Cien Sonetos de Amor.

As far as I can remember, I never really like or understand any poem, not even my own which I wrote when I was still in middle school as a part of Bahasa Indonesia class’ assignment (mine was about an insomniac guy who suffered from chronic depression and decided to hang himself to die – reminiscing of it now, well, no wonder I hate it back then, and even still).

However, things changed after I watched Il Postino, an Italian movie set in the 1950s when Pablo Neruda was exiled to a small island in Italy and befriended with a local guy name Mario Ruoppolo who became his personal postman – thus came the title of this beautiful movie.
Neruda tried his best to explain what poems are all about – as similes and metaphors – to his new friend : by explicating to him that that’s where the beauty of them lay, on not in the literary meaning but in the comparisons of things.

I browsed the web searching for Pablo Neruda after watching this movie, and found the sonnet cited above. Originally he wrote it in Spanish, and I didn’t find any piece of information as who translated it into English. However, the 17th Love Sonnet still mesmerized me; it captured my attention and was so absorbed by it, I wrote a copy of it in my scrapbook which I always bring everywhere when I was still studying in university.

I could say for sure that I fell in love with that specific sonnet, not knowing that it was also used in a movie.

Inspired by what Mario did with one of Neruda’s poems he found in the poet's house – he used one it to attract a beautiful girl he loves long before Neruda set foot upon the tiny Italian fishing village – I did almost the same.

Almost, because I wasn’t quite sure that I love this girl who lives in a boarding house a couple of blocks away from mine, but was very curious to find out what would happened if I pretend to her and her friends that I like her.
Out of sheer curiosity.
Perhaps, this insincere act I am about to tell you below was driven solely by all of her friends whom told me that she had a crush on me.

Knowing that her 20th birthday is just around the corner, I called her pretending that I wanted to talk about some things. Later before we ended that conversation, she invited me to come over to her room the next evening.
So I prepared an Il Postino novel, written by Antonio Skármeta, and inserted a small Harvest card on which I wrote the “I do not love you ...” sonnet.

We chatted for about an hour before I presented her my gift. She was surprised and seemed very contented with the book, telling me that she just watched the movie she and her friends rented on VideoEzy the weekend before. Of course, I deliberately failed to mention that it was supposed to be an ahead of time birthday gift instead of a casually surprise one.
Flipping through the pages, she eventually found the card and read it. I noticed how her expression changed while reading it but unable to guess what she felt that moment. All I can say was that I sensed everything was gradually changed into an awkward situation. To make the long story short, my visit ended in half an hour later.

I held myself from contacting her until a week after her birthday, pretending I forgot it. When I finally met her that particular evening, she looked and acted normal to me, as if nothing awkward ever happened a fortnight ago. During our brief met-up, she never mentioned anything about that night. And when I finally asked her if she already read or even finished the book, she told me she got loads of assignment from her professors and couldn’t find time to read it. And then we just continued talking about everything else but that book. Especially not that small card written with Neruda’s 17th Love Sonnet.

It has been almost eight years since that particular night. I haven’t heard anything from her after I moved into Jakarta four years ago. But last year when I met Renee, one of her closest friend which also happened to be mine, she told me that when she met that girl a year before, she still asked about my wellbeing. And from the way she talked to me, I even sensed that Renee also knew about that particular card which I gave to her friend.

I didn’t understand her (reaction) back then. And now I know that I still do.

All I know for sure is that I still wish that someday I will find a special someone that I love much to whom I can read that 17th Love Sonnet in our special moments, and to feel its true intended meaning each day, and to share its beauty together in our lives.

Titi Nginung dan Nostalgia Piala Dunia

Bermula ketika aku menyaksikan partai perdelapan final antara Italia melawan Korea Selatan di putaran final Piala Dunia 2002. Kagum rasanya melihat permainan cantik tim Italia yang berusaha tanpa henti menggedor pertahanan tim Korea Selatan yang stamina para pemainnya pantas diacungi jempol. Meskipun ada sedikit rasa kecewa melihat kasarnya performance para pemain Korea Selatan, yang bisa jadi disebabkan oleh tekanan mental dari para supporternya plus tekanan sebagai tim tuan rumah. Wasit yang memimpin permainan pun rasa-rasanya ikut bertindak kurang adil dengan cenderung memihak pada tim tuan rumah.

Saat menyaksikan papan elektronik pergantian pemain yang diacungkan oleh salah satu ofisial untuk memberitahukan kepada wasit ketua bahwa Del Piero ditarik keluar dari lapangan, tiba-tiba terlintas dalam benakku sederet angka : 22-1-19. Kira-kira deretan angka apa ya?

Yap! Aku ingat sekarang.
Bukan, deretan angka itu tidak ada kaitannya dengan judi togel yang angka kemujurannya ditentukan dari Singapura.

Deretan angka itu mengingatkanku pada sebuah novel olahraga yang sangat menarik karya seorang penulis bernama unik, Titi Nginung. Novel yang kupinjam dari perpustakaan distrik dan kubaca ulang hingga lima kali (!!!) selama 3 tahun masa SMP. Novel yang membuatku sangat penasaran untuk mencari tahu karya lainnya dari mba’ Titi. Sayangnya, saat itu tak kutemukan satupun karyanya yang lain di deretan buku kategori bacaan anak dan remaja.
Tapi aku ingat novel Opera Jakarta yang pernah diterbitkan secara berseri oleh harian Kompas, dan resensi adaptasi filmnya sempat kubaca dari majalah Hai zaman baheula, saat isi Hai masih lebih berbobot dan jauh lebih ilmiah daripada yang sekarang.

22-1-19.
Saat aku membacanya untuk pertama kali, entah mengapa aku merasa ’terguncang’. Dan sempat sampai sangat mempercayai isi novel itu sungguh-sungguh terjadi. Bahwa semua hal yang disebut di dalam novel tersebut dapat (atau bahkan sudah pernah) terjadi dalam dunia olahraga Indonesia. Novel ini sungguh-sungguh mengaduk-aduk perasaanku.

Namun pada saat itu aku belum diizinkan membaca Opera Jakarta karena kata kakak-kakakku yang hobi membaca dan kemudian ’menghasut’ ibuku agar melarangku untuk membacanya, isi cerita yang terkandung di dalam Opera Jakarta itu tidak layak kubaca sebelum dewasa. Sebelum aku mencapai 17 plus.
Jadilah aku cuma bisa membaca 22-1-19: lagi dan lagi dan lagi.
Dan semakin pula aku terpesona pada gaya bahasanya, caranya bertutur, dan ’kejujuran’-nya (atau barangkali lebih tepat: ”keliaran” imajinasinya).

Rasa penasaranku diperberat oleh kemisteriusan sosok seorang Titi Nginung, yang di dalam pengantar novel terbitan Gramedia tersebut, identitasnya dirahasiakan. Menjadi sangat samar.

Hingga di awal dekade 1990-an, aku mendengar selentingan kabar mengecewakan dari kakakku bahwa Titi Nginung di-’breidel’. Katanya karena ada permintaan tidak resmi dari salah satu institusi pemerintah negeri ini. Titi dilarang berkarya lagi. Buku-bukunya tidak lagi diberi izin untuk dicetak, meskipun tidak berarti lantas harus ditarik oleh Gramedia dari pasar.

Aku masih ingat bahwa saat itu merasa sangat kecewa, karena hanya sempat membaca 22-1-19.

Hingga kemudian satu hari aku menemukan Opera Bulutangkis di salah satu rak di perpustakaan SMU-ku, tertumpuk di antara deretan buku menguning dan berdebu dalam rak di pojokan yang mendapat status tidak resmi: ”buku tidak laku”. Novel tersebut di-display bersama sejumlah buku yang saat itu (hingga kini) menjadi bagian dari sejarah terlupakan dalam khazanah sastra Indonesia.
Mungkin sekarang kalau diingat-ingat lagi, rasanya berlebihan. Tapi saat aku menemukan buku itu, rasanya begitu penuh semangat yang meluap-luap.
Saat itu juga buku itu kubawa ke counter untuk dicap. Dipinjam. Pertama kalinya setelah hampir lima tahun! Demikian yang sempat kuperhatikan dari stempel penanggalannya.

Setibanya di kamar siang itu, buku itu langsung kubaca dengan penuh perhatian. Nikmat rasanya. Kedengarannya aneh? Memang.
Seluruh perhatianku benar-benar tertumpah pada buku itu sejak kubaca baris pertama. Konsentrasiku tersedot. Dan jantungku terus berdebar membaca petualangan si tokoh utama yang orang Jawa dengan nama yang tidak kalah uniknya dari nama si pengarang: Bajang Kirek. Nama yang eksotis. Meski sebenarnya dikisahkan pemberian nama unik tersebut berkaitan erat dengan latar belakangnya sebagai seorang putra Jawa yang dibuang oleh keluarganya.

Imajinasiku melayang, mencoba mempersonifikasikan seperti apa kiranya sosok Bajang Kirek dalam kehidupan nyata.
Ah, barangkali dia seperti Icuk Sugiarto di tahun delapanpuluhan. Atau Joko Suprianto. Karena saat itu, tahun 1995, mas Joko sedang berjaya sebagai pemain top Indonesia. Dan di tingkat dunia.
Di mataku, sosoknya tampak begitu sesuai dengan karakterisasi fisik si jagoan bulutangkis dalam Opera Bulutangkis. Orang Jawa dengan prinsip hidup yang kuat. Dan sama sekali tidak ganteng :-P

Berdebar sungguh jantungku (swear! ini beneran!) membaca pertarungan antara ”Mas Joko” melawan si Super Robot yang diciptakan dan didesain agar menjadi jago bulutangkis nomor satu dunia.
Yang di kemudian hari membuatku berpikir bahwa Titi Nginung justru seakan-akan telah meramalkan pertarungan serupa antara Deep Blue melawan Garry Kasparov. Sekian tahun sebelum peristiwa bersejarah itu benar-benar terjadi di dunia olahraga catur.
Kagum, begitu maju dan ’liar’-nya imajinasi seorang Titi.

Sekian tahun berselang dan kini, di tahun 2002, kembali nama Titi Nginung mencuat dalam memoriku. Diiringi serangkaian pertanyaan mengganggu :
Siapakah sebenarnya Titi Nginung?
Mengapa hanya sedikit novel yang ditulisnya?
Benarkah isu bahwa dia di-’breidel’?
Mengapa karya tulisnya tidak pernah diterbitkan lagi?
Di manakah bisa kudapatkan novel Opera Jakarta?

Dan ...
Apakah dia masih hidup?




{ Artikel orisinil Titi Nginung dan Nostalgia Piala Dunia pertamakali dipublikasikan online pada tanggal 24 Oktober 2002 di situs Penerbit yang kini sudah tidak aktif. Setelah artikel tersebut ’terbit’, barulah beberapa penggemar buku menginformasikan kepadaku bahwa sebenarnya Titi Nginung adalah nama pena dari Arswendo Atmowiloto }