Suara dari Unterdorf

Serak

Hoarse

Pada pagi hari pertandingan final, Thinley Wangdi terbangun dan mendapati suaranya telah hilang.

On the morning of the final, Thinley Wangdi woke up and no longer had a voice.

Dia tidak langsung menyadarinya. Dia berbaring di bawah selimut wol, mendengarkan ayam jantan Unterdorf saling bersahut-sahutan, dan memikirkan apa yang selalu dipikirkannya pada hari terakhir turnamen selama tiga puluh satu tahun: Hari ini. Lalu dia berdeham untuk menguji bait pertama hari itu, dan dari dadanya keluar bunyi seperti seseorang menyeret pintu di atas kerikil.

He did not notice at once. He lay under the woollen blanket, listening to the roosters of Lower Village contradict one another, and thought what he had thought for thirty-one years on the last day of the tournament: today. Then he cleared his throat to try out the first verse of the day, and what came out of his chest was a sound like someone pushing a door across gravel.

Dia mencobanya sekali lagi, lebih keras. Yang keluar hanyalah udara, kering dan hangat, disertai rasa perih menggores yang menjalar sampai ke telinga. Selama tiga hari di perempat final dan semifinal, dia telah meneriakkan bait-bait olok-oloknya melintasi lapangan, sejauh seratus empat puluh meter, melawan angin dan dering lonceng sapi, dan malam-malam di lembah pada bulan Oktober sudah dingin. Begitulah akibatnya. Dia berusia enam puluh tiga tahun, seorang pensiunan tukang pos, dan satu-satunya hal yang pernah dibutuhkan Unterdorf darinya adalah organ tubuh yang satu itu.

He tried again, louder. Only air came out, dry and warm, and a scratching that pulled all the way up into his ears. For three days, in the quarter-final and the semi-final, he had shouted his mocking verses across the field, a hundred and forty metres, against the wind and against the cowbells, and in October the nights in the valley were already cold. That was the bill. He was sixty-three, a retired postman, and the only thing Lower Village had ever needed from him was precisely this organ.

Dia duduk, mengambil batu tulis kecil dari rak di atas tempat tidur, yang biasanya dipakai mencatat belanjaan, lalu menulis: HARI INI TIDAK. Kemudian dia memandangi kata-kata itu dan menghapusnya dengan lengan bajunya. Dechen dahulu menulis bait-bait terbaik di meja dapur, dan dia hanya meneriakkannya. Sejak istrinya meninggal empat tahun lalu, dia menulisnya sendiri; bait-bait itu tidak memburuk, tetapi lahir dari kepala yang terasa lebih sunyi.

He sat up, took the little slate from the shelf above the bed, on which the shopping list usually stood, and wrote: NOT TODAY. Then he looked at the words and wiped them off with his sleeve. Dechen had written the best verses, back then, at the kitchen table, and he had only shouted them. Since she had died four years ago he wrote them himself, and they had not got worse, but they came out of a head in which it was quieter.

“Kakek?” Choden berdiri di ambang pintu, sembilan belas tahun, mengenakan jaket abu-abu perusahaan telepon yang mendanai pertandingan final tahun ini, dengan tali bertuliskan TIM ACARA tergantung di lehernya. Selama liburan semester, dia mengangkut kabel dan pengeras suara untuk perusahaan itu, dan dia memiliki bakat melangkah ke ruangan mana pun seolah-olah semua orang memang sedang menunggunya. “Kakek terlihat seperti baru menerima surat yang ditujukan untuk diri Kakek sendiri.”

“Grandfather?” Choden stood in the doorway, nineteen years old, in the grey jacket of the telephone company that was paying for the final this year, a lanyard around her neck saying EVENT TEAM. In her semester break she lugged cables and loudspeakers for the company, and she had a gift for walking into any room as if she had been expected. “You look as if you had received a letter addressed to yourself.”

Thinley menunjuk ke lehernya dan menggelengkan kepala.

He pointed to his throat and shook his head.

“Tidak,” katanya. “Jangan, jangan, jangan. Hari ini?”

“No,” she said. “No, no, no. Today?”

Thinley mengangguk.

He nodded.

“Katakan sesuatu.”

“Say something.”

Dia membuka mulut. Bunyi pintu di atas kerikil itu keluar lagi, dan Choden mengatupkan bibirnya rapat-rapat agar tidak tertawa, tetapi tawa itu tetap lepas, lalu dia terdiam begitu melihat wajah kakeknya.

He opened his mouth. The door on the gravel came out, and Choden pressed her lips together so as not to laugh, and laughed all the same, and then she stopped, because she saw his face.