Malam Kudus

Amara menaruh barang-barang itu satu per satu di meja Father Tom, di sakristi, pada Selasa pagi. Yang terakhir lampu kecil, yang masih menyala.

Amara put the things on Father Tom’s table one by one, in the vestry, on Tuesday morning. Last came the little lamp, which was still on.

Lalu dia berdiri sangat tegak, seperti yang dikatakan ayahnya.

Then she stood up very straight, the way her father told her to.

“Maaf, Father,” katanya. “Saya yang mengambilnya. Tidak ada yang membantu saya.” Dia menoleh ke Pak Doyle. “Maaf, Pak. Saya masuk lewat jendela Bapak.”

“I’m sorry, Father,” she said. “I took them. Nobody helped me take them.” She turned to Mr Doyle. “I’m sorry, sir. I climbed in by your window.”

Father Tom tidak bisa berbicara. Dia hanya menaruh tangannya yang besar di kepala Amara.

Father Tom couldn’t speak. He just put his big hand on her head.

“Jendela saya,” kata Pak Doyle akhirnya. “Saya membukanya dengan galah, bulan November, karena kamu minta. Lalu saya menutupnya cepat-cepat, karena kamu terburu-buru. Tiga puluh tahun, dan saya tidak memeriksanya.” Dia memandang saya. “Jadi ini salah saya juga, Bu Novak. Dan salah Anda, sedikit.”

“My window,” said Mr Doyle at last. “I opened it with my pole, in November, because you asked me. Then I closed it fast, because you were in a hurry. Thirty years, and I didn’t check it.” He looked at me. “So it’s on me too, Miss Novak. And on you, a little.”

Lalu dia mengulurkan tangannya, dan saya mengembalikan kuncinya.

Then he held out his hand, and I gave him back his key.

“Saya akan membersihkan aula lagi, dan melihat pemanasnya,” katanya. “Untuk anak-anak. Saya belum memaafkan Anda, Bu Novak.”

“I’ll clean the hall again, and look at the heating,” he said. “For the children. I don’t forgive you yet, Miss Novak.”

Itu adil. Saya tidak membantah.

That was fair. I didn’t argue.

Sesudah itu saya menelepon Polisi Shah, dan dia menutup laporannya, dan dia tidak pergi ke bengkel Marco. Lalu saya sendiri pergi ke rumah sakit dan berdiri di meja suster kepala bangsal sampai dia melihat ke atas.

After that I phoned PC Shah, and he closed the report, and he didn’t go to Marco’s workshop. Then I went to the hospital myself and stood at the ward sister’s desk until she looked up.

Saya memberinya surat dari Kofi Mensah, tempat tidur delapan, ditulis pelan-pelan dengan pensil. Tolong izinkan anak-anak datang. Ini satu-satunya Natal yang bisa putri saya berikan kepada saya.

I gave her a note from Kofi Mensah, bed eight, written slowly in pencil. Please let the children come. It is the only Christmas my daughter can give me.

Suster itu membacanya dua kali. “Wartawan Anda menelepon saya tiga kali,” katanya. “Itu tidak mengubah apa-apa. Ini mengubahnya.” Dia mengeluarkan sebuah formulir. “Empat puluh anak di bangsal saya pada malam hari. Nama siapa di sini? Nama sekolah?”

The sister read it twice. “Your journalist phoned me three times,” she said. “That didn’t change anything. This does.” She took out a form. “Forty children on my ward at night. Whose name goes here? The school’s?”

“Bukan. Sekolah berkata tidak pagi ini. Pementasan paroki pada malam hari bukan kunjungan sekolah.”

“No. The school said no this morning. A parish play at night is not a school trip.”

“Kalau begitu nama siapa?”

“Then whose?”

Saya menulis nama saya sendiri. Satu anak di atas es, dan itu nama saya, dan mungkin pekerjaan saya.

I wrote my own name. One child on the ice, and it was my name, and maybe my job.