The Voice That Wasn't His Son

The voicemail arrives at twenty to seven on Wednesday evening, while Baptiste is cutting onions. It is his son's voice, unmistakably: slightly hoarse, a little rushed. "Dad, I'm in trouble. I can't explain. I need nine hundred right now, please, to this account. Don't call me back, my phone is about to die."

Pesan suara itu masuk pukul tujuh kurang dua puluh pada Rabu malam, saat Baptiste sedang mengiris bawang. Itu suara putranya, tak salah lagi: sedikit serak, agak tergesa-gesa. "Ayah, aku sedang kesulitan. Aku tidak bisa menjelaskan. Aku butuh sembilan ratus sekarang juga, tolong, ke rekening ini. Jangan telepon balik, ponselku hampir mati."

Baptiste puts down the knife. His heart is pounding, and his first instinct, the one every father has, is to reach for his banking app. His thumb is already hovering over the screen.

Baptiste meletakkan pisaunya. Jantungnya berdebar kencang, dan naluri pertamanya, naluri yang dimiliki setiap ayah, adalah meraih aplikasi perbankannya. Ibu jarinya sudah melayang di atas layar.

Then something small nags at him. He plays the message again. The voice is right, and so is the breathing. But in twenty-two years, Ismail has never said "Dad, I'm in trouble." He says "Dad, quick question," and he asks for money the way other people return a borrowed book: awkwardly, with a joke.

Lalu ada sesuatu yang kecil mengusiknya. Ia memutar pesan itu lagi. Suaranya benar, napasnya pun benar. Tetapi selama dua puluh dua tahun, Ismail tidak pernah mengatakan "Ayah, aku sedang kesulitan." Ia akan berkata "Ayah, mau tanya sebentar," dan ia meminta uang seperti orang mengembalikan buku pinjaman: canggung, disertai lelucon.

Baptiste breathes out slowly. If his son were really in danger, he reasons, why would he forbid a phone call? That one detail frightens him and helps him at the same time. Instead of sending money, he presses the call button next to his son's name.

Baptiste mengembuskan napas pelan-pelan. Kalau putranya sungguh dalam bahaya, pikirnya, kenapa ia melarang menelepon? Satu detail itu menakutkan sekaligus menolongnya. Alih-alih mengirim uang, ia menekan tombol panggil di samping nama putranya.

It rings four times. Then, "Hey, Dad. Hold on, I'm in the library." A rustle, a door, a quieter corridor. "What's wrong? You sound strange."

Telepon berdering empat kali. Lalu, "Hei, Yah. Tunggu sebentar, aku di perpustakaan." Terdengar gemeresik, pintu, lorong yang lebih sepi. "Ada apa? Suara Ayah terdengar aneh."

"Did you just leave me a voicemail?"

"Kamu baru saja meninggalkan pesan suara untuk Ayah?"

"No. I've been in a seminar since four."

"Tidak. Aku ikut seminar sejak pukul empat."

Baptiste holds the phone against the speaker and plays the message. For a few seconds, his son says nothing. Then, in a small voice, he says, "That's me. That's exactly me. But I never said that."

Baptiste menempelkan ponselnya ke pengeras suara dan memutar pesan itu. Selama beberapa detik, putranya tidak berkata apa-apa. Lalu dengan suara kecil ia berkata, "Itu aku. Itu persis suaraku. Tapi aku tidak pernah mengatakan itu."

They stay on the line together while Baptiste does the practical things. He does not reply to the number. He saves the voicemail, photographs the account details and phones the bank's fraud line. The operator tells him calmly that such calls are being reported more and more often. He did the right thing by checking, she says, because people who have been frightened for a whole minute often pay first and think later.

Mereka tetap tersambung bersama sementara Baptiste mengerjakan hal-hal praktis. Ia tidak membalas nomor itu. Ia menyimpan pesan suaranya, memotret rincian rekening, dan menelepon layanan penipuan bank. Petugasnya mengatakan dengan tenang bahwa panggilan semacam itu makin sering dilaporkan. Katanya, Baptiste sudah melakukan hal yang benar dengan memeriksa dulu, karena orang yang ketakutan selama satu menit penuh sering membayar lebih dulu dan berpikir kemudian.

"It must have been made from my videos," Ismail says. "My cycling club's page has hours of me talking."

"Pasti dibuat dari video-videoku," kata Ismail. "Halaman klub sepedaku berisi berjam-jam rekaman aku berbicara."

When Baptiste's wife comes home, she finds him at the kitchen table, staring at a pile of chopped onions. He tells her everything. She listens to the message twice and goes pale. "I would have sent it," she says. "Within thirty seconds."

Ketika istri Baptiste pulang, ia mendapati suaminya di meja dapur, menatap setumpuk bawang cincang. Baptiste menceritakan semuanya. Istrinya mendengarkan pesan itu dua kali dan wajahnya memucat. "Aku pasti sudah mengirimnya," katanya. "Dalam tiga puluh detik."

"So would I, nearly," says Baptiste.

"Aku juga hampir," kata Baptiste.

On Sunday, the whole family eats together, and they make a rule. If anyone ever calls asking for urgent money, that person must say a code word first. It has to be something that cannot be found online. After some arguing, they choose "turnip." Nobody can explain why it feels right. None of them, however, has ever posted anything about turnips.

Pada hari Minggu, seluruh keluarga makan bersama, dan mereka membuat satu aturan. Kalau ada yang menelepon untuk meminta uang mendesak, orang itu harus menyebutkan kata sandi lebih dulu. Harus sesuatu yang tidak bisa ditemukan di internet. Setelah berdebat sebentar, mereka memilih "lobak". Tak seorang pun bisa menjelaskan kenapa rasanya tepat. Namun, tak seorang pun dari mereka pernah mengunggah apa pun tentang lobak.

That night, a voice note appears on Baptiste's phone. It is his son, warm and slightly hoarse. "Hey, Dad. Just testing the system. Turnip."

Malam itu, sebuah pesan suara muncul di ponsel Baptiste. Dari putranya, hangat dan sedikit serak. "Hei, Yah. Cuma menguji sistemnya. Lobak."

Baptiste laughs out loud. Then he saves the message in a folder, which he labels "Real."

Baptiste tertawa terbahak-bahak. Lalu ia menyimpan pesan itu dalam sebuah folder yang ia beri nama "Asli".