People from Bloomington

by Budi Darma, Tiffany Tsao, Intan Paramaditha Narrated by Nathan Agin, Mark Bramhall, Chris Andrew Ciulla, Langston Darby, Sunil Malhotra, Reynaldo Piniella, Eric Sharp, Emiko Susilo, Tiffany Tsao

Overview

Winner of the 2023 PEN Translation Prize

Winner of the 2023 NSW Premier's Translation Prize

An eerie, alienating, yet comic and profoundly sympathetic short story collection about Americans in America by one of Indonesia's most prominent writers, now in an English translation for its fortieth anniversary, with a foreword by Intan Paramaditha

A Penguin Classic

In these seven stories of People from Bloomington, our peculiar narrators find themselves in the most peculiar of circumstances and encounter the most peculiar of people. Set in Bloomington, Indiana, where the author lived as a graduate student in the 1970s, this is far from the idyllic portrait of small-town America. Rather, sectioned into apartment units and rented rooms, and gridded by long empty streets and distances traversable only by car, it's a place where the solitary can all too easily remain solitary; where people can at once be obsessively curious about others, yet fail to form genuine connections with anyone. The characters feel their loneliness acutely and yet deliberately estrange others. Budi Darma paints a realist world portrayed through an absurdist frame, morbid and funny at the same time.

For decades, Budi Darma has influenced and inspired many writers, artists, filmmakers, and readers in Indonesia, yet his stories transcend time and place. With The People from Bloomington, Budi Darma draws us to a universality recognized by readers around the world-the cruelty of life and the difficulties that people face in relating to one another while negotiating their own identities. The stories are not about “strangeness” in the sense of culture, race, and nationality. Instead, they are a statement about how everyone, regardless of nationality or race, is strange, and subject to the same tortures, suspicions, yearnings, and peculiarities of the mind.

Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher

First published in Indonesia 40 years ago, this story collection from celebrated author Darma gets a second life—and an English translation—as a Penguin Classic. Across seven stories set in the gridded streets and rented rooms of Bloomington, Ind., Darma’s characters navigate their morbidly funny lives in this meditation on alienation, failed connection, and the universal strangeness of the human mind.”
—The Millions

“Despite his assertion that that the characters from People from Bloomington could have been drawn from any place in the world, Darma perceived, as an outsider, an emerging attitude towards the recluses on the edges of an ordinary Midwestern city. People from Bloomington feels like a report from the early days of the great American unwinding of civic responsibility and sense of interconnectedness. His characters are unsettling because they are recognizable—if not in our communities, then in ourselves. Darma doesn’t let us look away.”
—David Kobe, The Rumpus

Product Details

BN ID:	2940178536339
Publisher:	Penguin Random House
Publication date:	04/12/2022
Edition description:	Unabridged

Read an Excerpt

The Old Man with No Name

 

Fess Avenue wasn't a long street. There were only three houses on it, all with attics and fairly large yards. Drawn there by an ad in the classifieds, I moved into the attic room of the middle house, which belonged to a Mrs. MacMillan. She herself occupied the lower floors. Such being the case, I had an excellent view-not only of Mrs. Nolan's house, but Mrs. Casper's as well.

 

Like Mrs. MacMillan, these two neighbors had been without husbands for a long time. Since Mrs. MacMillan never spoke about her own situation, I never found out what happened to Mr. MacMillan. But she told me that Mrs. Nolan lived alone due to her ornery disposition. As a young newlywed, she would often beat her husband. And one day, she'd arbitrarily ordered him to scram, threatening him with further beatings if he made any attempt to return. Since kicking him out, Mrs. Nolan had shown no desire to live with anyone else at all.

 

Mrs. Casper's was a different story. She hadn't cared much about her husband, a traveling salesman who'd rarely been at home. Whether he was in the house or elsewhere, it appeared to make no difference to her. It was the same when he died in a car accident in Cincinnati. She had betrayed no sign of either sorrow or joy.

 

That was the extent of my knowledge, for that was all that Mrs. MacMillan told me. Don't try to manage the affairs of others and don't take an interest in other people's business. This was what Mrs. MacMillan advised by way of conclusion once she was done telling me about her neighbors. It was the only way, she said, that anyone could ever hope to live in peace.

 

Furthermore, she continued, for the purpose of maintaining good relations between her and myself, I was only allowed to speak to her when necessary, and only ever on the phone. Therefore, I should get a telephone right away, she told me. And until the phone company came to install my line, I was forbidden from using hers. After all, she said, there was a public phone booth a mere three blocks away. She went on to say that the key she'd lent me could only be used for the side door. Her key was for the front entrance. This way, we could each come and go without bothering the other. Also, she continued, I should leave my monthly rent check in her mailbox-for I had a separate mailbox from hers, located on the side of the house. I must say, initially, I found these terms extremely agreeable, for it wasn't as if I liked to be bothered by other people myself.

 

The whole summer passed without any problems. I used my time to attend lectures, visit the library, take walks, and cook. And every now and then I would sit contemplatively in Dunn Meadow, a grassy area where there were always lots of people. I bumped into Mrs. Nolan and Mrs. Casper a few times, but as neither of them showed any desire to become acquainted when I tried to approach, I too became reluctant about speaking to them.

 

But as summer started to give way to fall, the situation changed. As autumn approached, the town of Bloomington was flooded by thirty-five thousand incoming students-new ones, as well as those who had spent the summer months out of town. But as far as I knew, not a single one of them lived on or in the vicinity of Fess. Bloomington bustled with activity, but Fess Avenue remained deserted. Besides this, as time went on, the days grew shorter, with the sun rising ever later and setting ever sooner. And then the leaves turned yellow and, by and by, began to shed. Not only that-it rained more often, sometimes to the accompaniment of lightning and thunder. Opportunities to go outdoors became few and far between. Only now, under such conditions, did I pay more attention to life on Fess. All three of them-Mrs. MacMillan, Mrs. Nolan, and Mrs. Casper-spent a lot of time in their yards raking leaves. The leaves would then be put into enormous plastic bags, placed in their cars, and driven to the garbage dump about seven blocks away.

 

Mrs. Nolan had a peculiar habit. If she caught a glimpse of any animal while she was in her yard, she would immediately begin pelting it with rocks that she appeared to keep at hand for this purpose. She always managed to hit her target, even without taking aim. A number of bats dangling from low branches were dispatched; the same went for assorted birds that had just happened to stop by, only to perch within stoning distance of Mrs. Nolan. It wasn't just her throwing abilities that were impressive, but also the extraordinary vigor that enabled her to wound and terminate the lives of so many animals. Her actions weren't illegal, of course, but I wondered how she never attempted to be more surreptitious. How she disposed of the poor creatures' bodies remained a complete mystery to me. I was positive that both Mrs. MacMillan and Mrs. Casper knew about Mrs. Nolan's behavior. Yet it came as no surprise to me that they simply let her be, without attempting to raise the matter or report her to the police. Apparently, it was by carrying on without interfering with each other that they were able to get along well.

 

Mrs. Casper didn't possess exceptional qualities like Mrs. Nolan, but it was hard to ignore her all the same. She was old and sometimes looked unwell, and when she looked unwell, she was unsteady on her feet. When she was in good health, she was capable of a brisk stride. I often thought to myself that if she ever had cause to run, she would manage a good sprint.

 

All three women shopped at the local Marsh Supermarket from time to time. It was a small branch, which sold both regular goods and ready-made foods, not far from the nearby phone booth. Naturally, since it was such a quiet area, the store didn't have many regular customers. The owner himself didn't seem to expect much business. The main thing was that the store could keep trundling along, and he seemed satisfied on this front. In keeping with the general atmosphere of the neighborhood, he wasn't friendly, speaking only when required. Personally, I only shopped there if I couldn't get to College Mall with its many affordable stores, some distance away.

 

To combat my loneliness, I'd sometimes flip through the phone book. In its pages, I discovered the numbers for Mrs. Nolan, Mrs. Casper, and the nearby Marsh. Over time, once we were well into autumn and the days had grown even shorter, and strong winds had become a regular occurrence, as had lightning and thunderstorms, I set about killing the lonely hours by playing telephone. At first, I'd dial the recorded voice that would give me the time, temperature, and weather forecast. That sufficed initially, but over time grew less effective. I began calling various classmates. They responded in the same way they did when I met them on campus, in as few words as possible, until I exhausted all possible topics of conversation. I began ringing up Marsh, asking if they stocked bananas, or apples, or spaghetti-anything really-which ended up annoying the owner. Mrs. MacMillan didn't seem too happy either whenever I called her with some made-up excuse. Like the store owner, she seemed to know full well that I had no real reason to talk.

 

At last, one rainy night, I phoned Mrs. Nolan to ask if I could help clean up her yard. This seemed not only to surprise her, but enrage her as well. Was her yard that filthy, that disgusting, she inquired. When I answered, "No," she asked what my ulterior motive was. I just thought she might need some help, I said, upon which she asked whether she looked so sickly, so feeble, that I felt compelled to offer my services. Naturally, I replied that she looked perfectly healthy. She promptly told me, "If I need anyone's help, I'll place an ad."

 

After this conversation, I didn't dare to phone Mrs. Casper.

 

One night, as the rain fell outside in a steady drizzle, something changed. There was a light on in Mrs. Casper's attic. And it remained on every night. I soon found out that someone was living there-an old man who looked about sixty-five years old. Every morning he would poke his head out the window and take aim at the ground below with a pistol, like a child playing with a toy. But I was certain that what he was holding was a real gun. And if I was right, something terrible might happen. So I immediately called Mrs. MacMillan. She thanked me for informing her, but then tried to bring the matter to a close: "If Mrs. Casper really does have a boarder in her attic, then that's her business. Just like you living here is mine. If he really does have a gun, he obviously has a permit for it. And if he doesn't have a permit, then they'll arrest him at some point."

 

I made a hasty attempt at protest before she could hang up. "If anything happens, won't it be bad for us?"

 

"As long as we don't bother him, what could happen?" she replied.

 

And that was the end of the conversation.

 

The next morning, under the pretext of buying milk, I took a walk to Marsh. Naturally, I took the opportunity to check whether there was a new name on Mrs. Casper's mailbox, but there was no name to be found. While paying for my milk, I commented to the owner, "Looks like Mrs. Casper has a new boarder."

 

"Yeah. He's already been in a few times to buy doughnuts."

 

"What's his name?" I asked.

 

"How should I know?" he replied with a shrug.

 

Coincidentally, on the way back from Marsh I ran into Mrs. Nolan.

 

"Mrs. Nolan, did you know Mrs. Casper has a new boarder?" I asked.

 

"Yes, I do," said Mrs. Nolan, showing no desire of wanting to talk further.

 

My hope that I would run into Mrs. Casper, unfortunately, remained unfulfilled.

 

That night, after some deliberation, I phoned Mrs. Casper.

 

"Mrs. Casper, I see there's someone living in your attic."

 

"Yes, I rented it out, son. Why do you ask?"

 

"If he needs a friend, I'd like to get to know him," I said.

 

"All right, I'll tell him. What's your number? If he's interested, I'll let him know he should give you a call."

 

After giving her my number, I asked for his in return. Mrs. Casper replied that he didn't have a phone. Nor did she know whether he had any plans to have one installed.

 

When I asked for his name, she said she had no clue. "If he used checks to pay the rent, I'd know it, of course. But he pays me in cash. The only thing he's told me about himself is that he fought in World War Two."

 

On this note, the conversation came to an end.

 

Things went on as usual after that, except for the weather, which got increasingly worse, and the temperature, which continued to plummet. Every day, the man would point his gun at the ground below, taking aim at a large rock beneath a tulip tree, never firing any bullets. And every night, the light in Mrs. Casper's attic would shine steadily on. In the meantime, the old man never called me. And I never ran into him. As far as I knew, he never left the house, so I never had the chance to chase after him and pretend to bump into him by coincidence.

 

One morning, when the weather was particularly bad, I called the phone company to ask if anyone on Fess Avenue had recently installed a line.

 

"What's the person's name?" asked the operator.

 

"I don't know. But he lives on Fess."

 

"Now that's a tough one," answered the operator, "unless you know his name. Keep in mind, sir, since all the new students began arriving for the fall semester, thousands of people have been installing new lines."

 

Her answer terminated my desire to pursue the matter further.

 

The next day I went to Marsh to buy a doughnut.

 

"Did the old man stop by recently?" I asked. "The one who lives in Mrs. Casper's attic?"

 

"Why, yes. Didn't you see him, son? He just left the store."

 

"Oh, really?" I said, somewhat bewildered.

 

I asked whether he'd ever received a phone call from the man. The store owner shook his head.

 

I hurried out of the store, but my efforts to run into the old man bore no fruit. Several times I circled the area-South Tenth and Grant, Dunn, Horsetaple, and Sussex-but I saw no trace of him. Then, upon returning home, I found that the old man was already back in his room, aiming his pistol below, as usual, making shooting motions, but never firing a single bullet. I hoped that at some point he'd look my way, but my wish was never granted.

 

That same night I decided to write him a letter. Since no one knew his name, I could address it to anyone and Mrs. Casper would be sure to pass it along. On the back of the envelope, I wrote, John Dunlap, c/o Mrs. Casper, 205 Fess Avenue.

 

The letter read as follows:

 

John,

 

How about meeting at the Marsh at half past eleven on Wednesday morning? I know you like doughnuts. This time around, the doughnuts are on me, and the coffee, too.

 

Best wishes,

 

I printed my name and address.

 

Also that very night, I dropped the letter in the mailbox near Marsh. I'd nearly reached the mailbox when an old man came out of the supermarket. I mailed the letter and hurried after him, but he'd already vanished, having turned into a small alley connecting South Tenth with South Eleventh. I couldn't say who this old man was for sure, but there was a chance that he might be Mrs. Casper's boarder. I hesitated for a moment. Should I chase after him or return to Marsh first, under the guise of buying bread or cake, to find out if he really was the man from Mrs. Casper's attic? My hesitation was to blame, I suppose, for by the time I decided to follow him into the alley, I'd lost his trail. Only when I returned to Marsh did I receive confirmation that he was indeed the man I was looking for.

 

"This time he bought a tuna sandwich," the store owner said.

 

Strangely, there was no light in Mrs. Casper's attic that night. I kept waiting, but still the light remained off. My fingers began to itch.

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