The Healers

 

 

THE  HEALERS

                  

                   Djaimie Vidjaya’s performance was breathtaking. True, his dancing rhythm was too vigorous, too stormy, to be elegant. But his self-assured movements manifested a zest for life and an enthusiasm that compelled the patrons of the small bar to give him their attention. It bore no semblance to his pathetic appearance earlier in the day when, supported by crutches, he hopped into the church where I had been commissioned to heal him.

                   Smiling inwardly, I observed Djaimie’s progress on the dancing floor. His attractive partner’s tightly fitting Sarong Kebaya – the uniform provided by the establishment – suggested that later on she would leave the bar resignedly on the arm of some generous client.  For the moment, though, she enjoyed swinging with Djaimie. Other girls – some wearing the same showy costumes and the rest attired in clothes befitting escorts of wealthy patrons – bestowed on Djaimie tender glances. Obviously, his wild gesticulations and rhythmic steps titillated feminine instincts.      

                   When the orchestra came to a halt, Djaimie wiped the sweat off his brow and returned to his table. As his partner melted into the background, another girl came over with a mug of frosting beer.  Smiling contentedly, Djaimie took a hearty swig. Much as I hated to intrude, I felt the time had come to announce my presence. Walking over, I proffered my hand and said: “Long time no see, Djaimie; and I didn’t know you are such an accomplished dancer! Watching you is a treat! Not like this morning, when you hopped into the church on crutches!”

                   “So, it’s you, Prof!” he said. Gone was his smile and a watchful glance replaced his gleeful expression.

                   “Djaimie” I complained, “why does everybody call me ‘Prof’? This morning you addressed  me as ‘Mr. Peter’! It was much more friendly!”

                   “But you are ‘Prof’, Mr. Peter; everybody see you give lectures; you teach; so people call you ‘Prof’! Is natural!”

                   “Like you, Djaimie? Hopping on crutches in the morning and dancing merrily in the evening?”

                   “You great healer, Prof; you the best! This morning, I think I never dance again in my life!”

                   “Poor Djaimie!”

                   “Prof – what you really want?” he was feeling badgered, even threatened.

                   “Now, now, Djaimie: nothing unfriendly; no animosity; shall we say – for now – I am after the truth!”

                   “Your English, Prof, very difficult; you please explain!”

                   “I come as friend, Djaimie; but I want to know the truth; I mean no harm. So don’t you worry! You understand?”

                   “Yes, Prof. But is simple. This morning, I still cripple. Hip no good; I come to church. Father Augustine he arrange. So, you come; we pray to Good Lord: ‘please heal Djaimie’; and he listen! Now I old Djaimie.”

 

                   He had tried hard to sound convincing. But the flicker in his eye told its own tale. Djaimie, I concluded, was no fool. He had realised I was wise to his game but tried to buy time by acting the role expected of a lucky invalid healed by a miracle. Smiling as warmly as I could, I put matters in their context: “Come off it, Djaimie – Djaimie my good friend; I happen to know; you see, Priya R. is a respected friend of mine. To tell you the truth, I’m here, in Djakarta, on a job for her Firm – a small business matter of the type I am good at. And  I decided to look up her other good friend, Djaimie!”

                   “But what Priya tell you?”

                   “A few months ago, Priya told me God had answered her prayers and blessed her with ‘holy healing powers’. She became convinced when, during a trip to Djakarta, she healed a man called Djaimie Vidjaya, who had broken his hip. She told me how he threw off his crutches and walked out of the church – stately and steadily - after she had placed her hands on his shoulder and prayed for his recovery.  I cross-examined and found out she kept sending her ‘patient’ money regularly: wanted to make sure he was alright!”

                   “I broke my hip again!” he muttered, in a faltering voice.

                   I was about to answer when an attractive hostess placed another mug of beer in front of Djaimie and asked for my order. She looked startled when I requested herbal tea.

                   “Never mind, Sorjani,” interjected Djaimie; “Prof, not take liqueur; and always cold; so you bring hot tea!”

                   “Sure, Djaimie,” countered the girl affectionately.

                   “Sorjani,” I ventured to ask; “is Djaimie the best dancer in this place?”

                   “Yes Sir; he  greatest!”

                    “And did he come yesterday?”

                   “Oh yes; and I dance with him!”

                   “Well, well, well, Djaimie” I turned on him as soon as she was gone.

                   “But I told you, Prof.; I break my hip yesterday,” he persisted desperately.

                   “After you finished dancing late at night? Djaimie; Djaimie! Grow up!”

                   “I break me hip many times, Prof.,” he wailed.

                   “Five times to be accurate, Djaimie! Before Priya performed her miracle, your hip had been healed four times! A private detective’s firm gave me full details. And Djaimie – three other ‘healers’ cured your deafness! All keep sending you money; good business – Djaimie my good friend!”  

                   “Father Augustine take cut for church, Prof! You also want cut?”

                   “No, Djaimie: I already told you: I’m not after money; and this is a very friendly meeting!”

                   “So, what you want, Prof? You want girls? Can arrange!”

                   “No, Djaimie; have wife,” I told him, falling in line with his vernacular; “have one and is enough; is plenty; two ladies too much for one sensible man, my friend!”

                   “Perhaps you not know how to handle.” He fell silent, looking at me with suspicion and then muttered: “you not want …”

                   For just a moment I remained in the dark. Then the penny dropped. “No, Djaimie,” I burst out laughing; “no interest in that sort of thing;  most certainly not, my friend!”

                   “What you really want, Prof? You hear what Priya tell you; and you get shamus check me out! Man not go so much trouble for nothing! So how?”

                   “I want you to do a job for me. You, Djaimie,  are  an excellent actor; and I need one!”

                   “You please explain!” he said, back to his equilibrium.

 

                   For the next few minutes, I became so engrossed in my explanation that I lost my eye contact with Djaimie. It took me an effort to relate how my small circle of friends in Singapore, which comprised several locals and expatriates, made a habit of discussing philosophical questions and supernatural phenomena.  Many of the attendants professed, with varying degrees of conviction, to deny the existence of any ‘higher ‘being’ and often purported to laugh heartily at the very mention of the name of the devil. After a while I had hit on the idea of showing them up. Djaimie Vidjaya was to be the tool.

 

                   If Djaimie agreed to render his services, he would fly – by business class - from Jakarta to Singapore and rent a suite in the very hotel in which our circle convened its meetings. At around midnight, when my mates had had a few drinks, he was to enter through a hidden door, properly garbed for the occasion, and chant, in a deep sonorous voice: “I am, Asmodeus, master of hell; come with me for your destined spell!” I was satisfied that this ‘little prank’ would separate the hawks from the pigeons! Concluding my discourse, I explained that a local actor was out of the question because – alas – some of my friends were avid theatre fans and might recognise him.

 

                   “Well, what do you say, Djaimie – good … ?” Raising my head to re-establish our eye contact, I was taken aback by Djaimie’s terrified expression and the small beads of sweat forming on his brow.

                   “Is something the matter, Djaimie? Aren’t you well?”

                   “Prof.,” he gulped; “Prof., you want me – me Djaimie Vidjaya – to be the Devil?”

                   “No, Djaimie; no; pull yourself together, my friend; there is no devil! All I want is for you to play – to pretend for a few minutes to be –  the devil!”

                   “But if devil knows, he get angry; he come and take me and, Prof., perhaps also you; devil there is; and tease him: not good,  is dangerous; and can be terrible!”

                   “But Djaimie – how can you believe in such an old wives’ tale?”

                   “If there is God, there is devil, Prof. I believe in God – and you?”

                   “Of course I don’t; and I was sure you too don’t believe. That’s why I asked you. Naturally, I don’t want you to play a role that worries you. So that’s that. But Djaimie – Djaimie Vidjaya – I do not understand!”

                   “What you not understand, Prof?” he asked far more calmly.

                   “For years, Djaimie, you act the role of the Man healed by a miracle when, in truth, there is nothing the matter with you. Your act encourages Priya and other simpletons to believe in their divine powers! You play hard and fast with their faith! If you really believed in God, how could you invoke his name in vain?”

 

                   Djaimie Vidjaya was not offended. He knit his brow, reflected and then called for another jug of beer. I watched with interest his fluid expression. His eyes, though, kept looking at me unflinchingly. It was clear that Djaimie Vidjaya had reflected on the very question raised by me when, from time to time, he had a philosophical spell or engaged in soul searching.  

 

                   “Look, Prof.,” he said at long last, “my healing act is lie: I know. But is a good lie. You ask yourself, Prof., why Priya R., or other persons, want heal? You think they want  do good? Maybe. But they also want feel they special. They want  feel God  choose them. I give them their big dream. True: they give me money; but they also get benefit – big benefit.”

                   “And my little trick?” I prompted.

                   “Is bad lie! Your friends want feel big. So they say ‘no devil’ and perhaps also say ‘no God’. So, they feel brave, modern, special. And what you do? You bring Djaimie Vidjaya to destroy their …”

                   “ … pretence,” I stepped in when I saw he was groping for the word.

                   “Yes, Prof. You take away their ‘pretence’ – you tear away mask. You make them look small. But I, Prof., make Priya feel big, important!”

                   “The difference between a ‘white lie’ and a ‘black lie’” I muttered; “it never dawned on me that we were coming to that!”

                   “But is that, Prof; you believe me.” He halted for a few seconds and then rushed on: “And, Prof., I think yours is also dangerous. European and some Asian friends, perhaps they laugh; but not all Asians. You make them lose face. Perhaps they try to laugh off; but later come look for you with Parang!”

 

                   The very thought of the sharp Indonesian hatchet knife passed a shiver through my spine. Its use to avenge a loss of ‘honour’ – a loss of face – was part and parcel of the involved tenets of local culture. I had known of  instances in which mild and civilised people resorted to it when put to shame. Djaimie Vidjaya had touched on a sore point.

                   “You may be right, Djaimie” I conceded.

                   “I am, Prof.  I think you better not play trick; not in Asia, Prof.”

                   “I accept; and thanks, Djaimie; but, then, how come you have the guts for the healing act. Suppose Priya or one of the gentlemen involved ever found out; wouldn’t they  retaliate?”

 

                   Once again, Djaimie Vidjaya fell into a reverie. Initially, his face was tight, withdrawn. Then his expression brightened. It took him a while to formulate his thoughts but, once he did, his words were clear and rang with conviction.

 

                   “No, Prof.,” he avowed; “I think no such danger!”

                   “But why? Isn’t it a loss of face to be told you are a healer only to find out your ‘patient’ conned you?”

                   “But, Prof., do you think healers accept fact?”

                   “What do you mean, Djaimie?”

                   “Prof., suppose you tell Priya everything you know. What you think she do?”

                   “Write you an angry letter – a stinker – and she’d call you a fraud;  and she would never send you another penny. But don’t you worry, Djaimie; your secret is safe with me.”

                   “You wrong, Prof! I think Priya not believe you; she say what you tell her not true!”

                   “Priya has known me for 35 years, Djaimie;  we have worked together; fought cases together!”

                   “I understand; but I think Priya not let you take big dream away. Perhaps she even scold you.”

                   “I don’t think so, Djaimie!”

                   “I tell you, Prof: you go tell Priya everything. If she not believe, you buy  me four pieces  Thai silk in Arab Street in Singapore – silk like Priya wear; I give my girl.”

                   “And if Priya  believes me?”

                   “I come Singapore and play devil role!”

 

                   Two days later, I walked into Priya’s  lavishly furnished office in downtown Singapore. Though close to seventy, she had retained her good figure and impressive posture. Her fashionable clothes and elegant coiffure gave her the aura of a sophisticated woman of the world. I knew that her deeply ingrained religious convictions did not suppress – perhaps had never been in conflict – with her sharp business acumen.  Professionally, Priya  had always been – and  would remain – a force to be reckoned with in our profession.  I watched with admiration how she went, steadily and persistently, through my detailed report concerning the business transaction she had commissioned me to investigate.

                   “As lucid and clear cut as all your previous reports,” she said when she raised her eyes. “You think the client should not proceed with the transaction?”

                   “If the Bankers lends the money, they’d earn the high interest but – in my opinion – they would incur a high risk of  losing the capital. The ‘borrower’ is ‘fishy’. His track record is unconvincing, and the transaction is suspicious. I fear there is a money laundering angle to it.”

                   “I agree,” she nodded. “I smelt a rat from the beginning. That’s why I asked them to get a second opinion from a detached consultant like you.”

                   “You might lose the clients if you are too frank with them,” I warned.

                   “Better lose them now than end up with an omelette on my face later. So that’s that. And now tell me: what else did you do in Jakarta?”

                   “Actually, I met a good friend of yours,” I seized the opportunity.

                   “Not old Mr. Roupati; he must be close to 80 but has remained  an eager beaver: runs his practice just as he did 30 years ago!”

                   “He’s quite a character,” I agreed; “but no – I wasn’t referring to him. I met your protégé, Djaimie Vidjaya!”

                   “Oh, Djaimie – and how is he?”

                   “As well as ever!” I assured her.

                   “I healed his broken hip, Peter. He was limping badly when he came to see me.”

                   “Oh, well – I healed it again a few days ago!”

                   “Don’t tell me he broke his hip again; and I didn’t know you were a healer, Peter. I thought you were an atheist or agnostic.”

                   “I am; and Djaimie had never broken a hip in his life; he simply likes to be ‘healed’; you were not the first to effect his miraculous cure!”

                   “I don’t know what you mean!” she said, the smile gone from her face.

                   Unflinchingly, I told her the  story, leaving out – as matter of prudence – my attempt to induce Djaimie to act the role of the Devil. Priya’s excellent breeding stood her in good stead. Despite the clear anger, flashing in her black luminous eyes, she let me finish without an interruption. When I was done, she looked at me sternly:        “What are you trying to do, Peter Berger?”

                   “What do you mean?”

                   “Trying to shake my faith? Do you think I’d believe any of this?”

                   “You mean you think I’ve made this up – Priya!”

                   “You are telling me I never healed Djaimie; that there was nothing wrong with him to start with! Do you think I’m that naïve? Don’t you think I know who is a cripple and who is a … fraud?”

                   “I’m only telling you facts. I am not passing judgment. And why on earth would I make up such a yarn?’

                   “Because you are a cynic; and you pride yourself on pocking fun at religion; even your own. You accept only the material world around you. In your eyes, anything beyond is a myth and rubbish. But you can’t shake my faith. I know God has chosen me; given me the power to heal; and nobody – nobody – can take this away from me!”

                   “Next thing you’ll say my report on today’s business is also a make up,” I muttered in disgust.

                   “Oh, no. I respect your professional integrity. In these matters I can – and do – rely on you. I only wish you would open your heart to the spiritual world beyond the material front.”

                   “We’ll have to agree to disagree on this, Priya” I shrugged, with ill concealed irritation. “And I suppose you still believe Djaimie’s a genuine fellow.”

                   “I’ll write to tell him it was naughty of him to pose for your healing pantomime. But mine was the real thing. And the Good Lord chose to let me – me – heal Djaimie; so Djaimie must have a decent core; and he deserves all the support he gets; perhaps he simply needs more money!”

                   “Lucky man!”  

                   “I don’t like the way you put this, Peter. Oh, well I’ll pray for you,” she sighed.

 

                   I knew that any further words would be futile. As I packed my briefcase, getting ready to go, I recalled my bargain with Djaimie. With an effort, I forced a smile on my face, and observed: “On an entirely different matter, Priya, can you tell me where you buy those lovely Thai silks? Is it from a shop in Arab Street?”

                   “I didn’t think your wife  wears such dresses,” she let her surprise show.

                   “A friend of mine was  impressed with the dress you wore some time ago – I think when you went to a concert. He wants to buy similar materials for his wife.”

                   “That’s nice,” she beamed as women do when you praise their smart clothes. “Well, it’s the shop near the corner of Arab Street and North Bridge Road.”

                   “Thanks; I’ll tell him when I see him next.”

                   “But, Peter, is he a European – like you?”

                   “Well, yes.”

                   “Then they’ll jack up the prices as soon as he drops in. Tell him to offer one third of what they ask!”

                   “Sure will; and thanks, Priya. On matters nonreligious, you are still … effective.”

                   “Religion should not blunt your senses for every day life,” she smiled, back to her normal pleasant and composed self.

 

                   As I took the lift to the ground floor, I thought to myself that life was full of surprises. In our meeting in the disco, Djaimie had addressed me as “Prof.”. True, I had earned my title – and the degrees culminating with its award – by painstaking and hard work, by perseverance and by years of service in different universities. Djaimie, in contrast, boasted no degree; but – I sensed - life itself had conferred on him a Master of Psychology Summa Cum Lauda. In this field, he was the Supremo!

 

                   When I emerged from the building, I hailed a cab and asked the taxi driver to take me to the corner of Arab Street and North Bridge Road.

                   “The beautiful Thai silk shop, Sir?”

                   “Precisely,” I said and watched as he engaged the gears.

 

 

 

                                                                                                                          Peter Berger