Di Balik Meja Kasir

Priya Shah telah membuka tokonya tepat pukul enam setiap pagi selama tiga puluh tahun, kecuali selama empat hari setelah suaminya meninggal dan satu kali pada Hari Natal saat putrinya menyembunyikan kunci-kunci toko. Ia membukanya sekarang, pada pukul enam, dalam kegelapan, dengan bunyi-bunyi kecil yang sudah begitu akrab: kunci yang berputar di lubangnya, grendel di bagian atas yang selalu macet dalam cuaca lembap, lonceng, serta bunyi klik lampu-lampu yang menyala sebaris demi sebaris di atas tumpukan surat kabar, kembang gula, dan kaleng-kaleng sup.

Priya Shah had opened her shop at six o’clock every morning for thirty years, except for the four days after her husband died and one Christmas Day when her daughter had hidden the keys. She opened it now, at six, in the dark, with the familiar small sounds: the key in the lock, the bolt at the top that stuck in damp weather, the bell, the click of the lights coming on one row at a time over the newspapers, the sweets, the tins of soup.

Ia menyukai saat-saat ini lebih dari waktu mana pun. Sebelum seisi kota terjaga, toko itu sepenuhnya menjadi miliknya seorang. Raj dulu juga menyukainya. Mendiang suaminya biasa berdiri di tempat ia berdiri sekarang, di balik meja kasir, memotong tali pada bundel-bundel surat kabar dengan pisau lengkung kecil yang masih tergantung di kaitnya di samping laci kasir, lalu membacakan judul-judul berita utama kepadanya dengan suara lantang meniru gaya pembaca berita tiruan yang konyol sampai ia tertawa.

She liked this hour more than any other. Before the town woke up, the shop belonged entirely to her. Raj had liked it too. He used to stand where she was standing now, behind the counter, cutting the strings on the bundles of newspapers with the little curved knife that still hung on its hook beside the till, and reading the headlines aloud to her in a terrible fake newsreader’s voice until she laughed.

Raj pasti akan angkat bicara. Pikiran itu selalu melintas di benaknya setiap hari selama lima belas tahun dan tak pernah sekali pun ia ucapkan terang-terangan. Raj meninggal delapan belas bulan sebelum musibah kebakaran itu, karena kondisi jantung yang tak seorang pun tahu sudah begitu lelah. Seandainya pria itu masih hidup pada pagi hari di bulan Januari itu, berdiri di sampingnya di trotoar mengenakan gaun kamar, ia pasti sudah mencium bau yang Priya cium, dan ia akan melangkah menyeberangi jalan menghampiri pria beranorak abu-abu itu lalu mengatakan sesuatu, dengan suaranya yang tenang dan agak terlalu keras, sehingga semua peristiwa itu tak akan pernah terjadi.

Raj would have spoken up. She had thought that every day for fifteen years and had never once said it aloud. He had died eighteen months before the fire, of a heart that nobody had known was tired. If he had been alive that January morning, standing beside her on the pavement in his dressing gown, he would have smelled what she smelled, and he would have walked across the road to the man in the grey anorak and said something, in his calm, slightly too loud voice, and none of it would have happened.

Atau barangkali akan tetap terjadi. Mungkin pihak asuransi akan menolak, toko roti akan tutup, Walter akan kehilangan segalanya, dan Michael akan tetap tinggal lalu menderita dengan cara yang berbeda. Ia sama sekali tidak tahu. Begitulah kerumitan jalan yang tak dipilih, seperti ungkapan puisi yang pernah dipelajari putranya di sekolah: kau takkan pernah tahu ke mana arahnya bermuara. Kau hanya tahu ke mana jalanmu sendiri membawamu.

Or perhaps it would. Perhaps the insurance would have refused, and the bakery would have closed, and Walter would have lost everything, and Michael would have stayed and been miserable in a different way. She had no idea. That was the trouble with the road not taken, as the poem her son had learned at school put it: you never found out where it went. You only found out where yours did.

Pukul enam lewat sepuluh lonceng berdentang, dan Ana masuk dari jalanan yang gelap dengan tepung menempel di lengan bajunya serta raut wajah yang sering Priya saksikan pada banyak orang selama bertahun-tahun, biasanya tepat sebelum mereka menceritakan sesuatu yang tadinya bertekad mereka simpan sendiri. Gadis itu tidak mengucapkan salam. Ia melangkah memutari meja kasir—hal yang tak pernah dilakukan siapa pun selain Raj tanpa dipersilakan—lalu mengulurkan ponselnya.

At ten past six the bell rang, and Ana came in from the dark street with flour on her sleeves and a face Priya had seen on many people over the years, usually just before they told her something they had decided not to tell anyone. The girl did not say hello. She came round the counter, which nobody but Raj had ever done without being asked, and held out her phone.

“Ayahku,” kata Ana. “Beliau mengirim ini jam lima. Aku belum mendengarkannya. Aku tidak sanggup mendengarkannya sendirian. Michael menawarkan diri, tapi dia seorang Bell, dan kurasa kehadiran seorang Bell justru akan memperburuk keadaan. Maukah Anda?”

“My father,” Ana said. “He sent this at five. I haven’t listened to it. I can’t listen to it on my own. Michael offered, but he’s a Bell, and I think a Bell would make it worse. Will you?”

Priya membawanya ke ruangan kecil di belakang, di antara kardus-kardus keripik kentang, lalu mendudukkannya di kursi, sementara ia sendiri duduk di atas kardus bungkus keripik yang bentuknya tak pernah benar-benar kembali tegak sejak terakhir kali diduduki. Ia meletakkan ponsel itu di atas meja di antara mereka berdua. Ana menatap benda itu seolah-olah gawai tersebut bisa menggigitnya. Kemudian ia mengulurkan tangan dan menekan tombol panah.

Priya took her into the little room at the back, among the boxes of crisps, and sat her down on the chair, and sat herself down on the box of crisp packets that had never quite recovered from the last time. She put the phone on the table between them. Ana looked at it as though it might bite her. Then she reached out and pressed the arrow.