Man Tiger (2 page)

On the evening Margio killed Anwar Sadat, Kyai Jahro was blissfully busy with his fishpond. A scent of brine wafted through the coconut palms, the sea moaned at a high pitch, and a gentle wind ruffled the algae, coral trees and lantanas. The pond lay in the middle of a cacao plantation, the trees barren from lack of care, their fruit shriveled and thin, like bird's eye chilis. The leaves were of use only to the tempeh factories, which collected them every night. Through this plantation ran a creek full of snakeheads and eels, its overflow swelling the swamp around it. Not long after the plantation was declared bankrupt, people had arrived to put up boundary stakes, clear away the water hyacinths and vast tangles of
kangkong
, and plant the marsh with rice. Kyai Jahro had come with them, but had grown rice for only one season. Rice required too much attention and time. Jahro, who had never heard of Orion—the short-season cultivar— replaced his rice with peanuts, which were more resilient and less trouble. At harvest time his fields yielded two sacks of pods that made him wonder how he would ever eat them all. So he turned his parcel of marsh into a pond and threw in some
mujair
and
nila
fry, and it became his favorite pastime to feed his fish before sundown, to watch them mouthing at the brimming water's surface.

He was spreading bran from the rice mill, as well as cassava and papaya leaves, on the water where his fish bobbed animatedly, when a motorcycle roared in the distance. He knew the sound so well he didn't bother to turn his head. It was even more familiar than the sound of the surau's drum that beat five times a day. It was Major Sadrah's shiny, bright-red Honda 70, which carried its owner to the surau, or brought his wife to the market, and at other times simply glided through the neighborhood in late afternoons, spinning around quiet corners when Sadrah had nothing else to do.

He was past eighty, Major Sadrah, but still in good shape. He had retired from the military many years ago, but every Independence Day stood among his fellow veterans. The city government was said to have given him a plot of land in the heroes' cemetery as a reward for his service, something he described as an invitation to die quickly. He swerved on his motorcycle and halted by the dike. After killing the engine, he wiped his mouth, above which lowered a dark mustache, for without this gesture he would not feel like himself. Jahro did not look up until Major Sadrah stood by his side. They talked about the previous night's rainstorm, which fortunately hadn't come during the herbal tonic company's film screening at the soccer field, although it must have nearly broken the hearts of every pond owner.

A similar rainstorm had come months ago, lasting one whole week. The creek, normally more mud than water, rose six feet, sweeping hosts of geese downstream, until the ponds around it disappeared. The fish, which would have filled the bellies of the villagers and their children, disappeared almost entirely. When the water subsided, all that was left were snails and the stems of banana plants. Jahro looked at Major Sadrah and said he had prepared some nets to cover his ponds and protect the fish in future.

At that moment, an old man on a bicycle, stooping to avoid the cacao branches above, called out to Jahro. Ma Soma, who taught children how to read the Koran at the surau, jumped off just in time to stop the bike hitting the dike. With both fists still firm on the handlebars, the bicycle reared up, like a horse yanked by its reins. Panting, he told them that Margio had killed Anwar Sadat. He said it in a manner suggesting that Jahro should hasten to lead the funeral prayers, for this had been one of his duties these past years.

“By God,” said Major Sadrah. For a moment they exchanged baffled glances, as if it were a joke they couldn't understand. “This afternoon I saw him carrying that war relic of an old, rusty samurai sword. Darned kid, I hope he didn't get it back after I'd confiscated the damn thing.”

“He didn't,” said Ma Soma. “The kid bit through his jugular.”

No one had ever heard of such a thing. There had been twelve murders over the past ten years in the city, and all involved machetes or swords. The cause of death was never a gun or kris dagger, and certainly not biting. People attacked with their teeth, particularly when women fought each other, but they didn't die that way. The identity of the killer and his victim made the news all the more shocking. They knew Margio the teenager and old Anwar Sadat all too well. It would never have occurred to anyone that these two figures would feature in such a tragic drama, no matter how eager Margio was to kill someone, or how detestable the man named Anwar Sadat.

A few moments slipped by as they pondered, as if lost in thoughts of rancid blood burbling from a punctured neck and a teenage boy staggering in panic, stupefied by his own recklessness, his mouth and teeth red, like the snout of an ajak dog after its morning kill. These imaginary scenes were too astonishing to believe. Even the pious Kyai Jahro neglected to whisper
innalillahi
, while Sadrah mouthed indistinct words and forgot to wipe his gaping mouth. Ma Soma was getting tired of standing there, and turned his bicycle around, giving them a sign to hurry, and so they set off, becoming all the more panic-stricken, as if the murder had not yet taken place and they were going to thwart it.

It was true that while Sadrah was on his way home from prayers at the surau that afternoon, still wearing a sarong, he had noticed the boy carrying the samurai sword from the hut where the nightwatch stood vigil. Everyone now was talking about that sword as proof that he had long harbored an intention to kill. The nightwatch hut stood in the middle of the village, opposite a defunct and overgrown brick factory. The samurai sword hung from the boy's hand as he plodded about, scarring the ground with its tip. At another moment he sat on a bench, swinging the sword, hitting the slit wooden drum used to sound the alarm. Several people saw this, but paid no heed. The sword was so worn out and rusty, it couldn't decapitate the scrawniest chicken.

Decades after the end of the war, the many samurai swords left behind by the Japanese had become decorations or talismans. Most of them were neglected and eaten away by the salty air, as Sadrah recalled. Perhaps Margio had found his sword at the dump or tucked away inside the brick factory. Sadrah noticed it and didn't overlook the fact that, no matter how damaged, it was still a sword, although he didn't seriously suspect that the boy intended to put an end to Anwar Sadat's life. There were no signs that they were at odds, as far as their neighbors knew.

He asked for the samurai sword mainly because he was worried that Margio was drunk on white sticky-rice arak and spoiling for a fight. These kids liked to get drunk, and that was the source of countless petty problems. He couldn't kill anyone with that worn-out sword, but drunkenness might push him to beat a neighbor's dog, then the neighbor might throw a rock at him in return, and things would get out of hand. Moreover, at last night's herbal tonic company's film screening at the soccer field, a crowd had gathered, an event which always threatened to unleash the fighting demon that lurked among the boys. The violence could drag on into the next day and often for days afterward. Whatever the case, Sadrah had good reason to worry about an unsheathed samurai sword being carried around at a roadside, no matter how harmless the object might seem.

“Why?” Margio asked, unwilling to hand over his toy. “Look, it's just a useless old piece of iron.”

“But you could kill someone with it if you wanted,” Sadrah said.

“That's my plan.”

Even though the boy had clearly said he meant to commit murder, Sadrah paid no heed. He coaxed the kid, and after threatening to take him to the military headquarters, he managed to get the sword, took it home, and tossed it on top of the dog cage behind the house.

He soon forgot about the rusty sword, and saw no hint of the disaster to come. Perhaps age had made him complacent. Now he felt slightly sorry for having confiscated the useless sword. Had the shabby weapon remained with Margio, Anwar Sadat might still be alive. No matter how many times it struck him, he would have suffered no worse than bruises and broken bones. Now the Major shivered, imagining how the boy embraced Anwar Sadat as his jaws bit down on his neck.

That afternoon he had told the boys to take a break and chase women, if they had to, and make sure they had someone to have fun with that weekend. The next day he would take them boar hunting as usual. During the hunting season, they were good enough to stay sober on Saturday nights, otherwise they wouldn't be invited or even worse they'd end up impaled on a boar's tusks. They would go to the shore in troops, dragging wild women along, or greeting respectable ladies with bags of oranges and shy smiles. They would go home before ten o'clock, all sweet and obedient in the name of boars, and stay fast sleep until the call to prayer woke them at dawn. Darned kid, Major Sadrah cursed as he thought of Margio, for instead of resting and preparing himself for the coming boar hunt, he had gone to the house of the bristly, porcine Anwar Sadat and killed him.

Boar hunting had become their pastime many years ago, back when Sadrah was still the town's military commander. Anwar Sadat himself had always been highly enthusiastic every time the harvest season ended, when people were no longer bound to the soil, which was left fallow temporarily. Although he had never raised a spear or run up and down the hills, he always provided boxed meals of rice and fried egg and a truck to take the hunters to the jungle's edge. Three times a year they enjoyed this sport, going on the season's non-stormy Sundays. Between hunts they would tame ajaks and train them to course their prey.

Among the troop of hunters that until recently had been under Sadrah's leadership, Margio was the champ. On his back he wore a scar from a slashing boar's tusk, and all his friends knew how many hogs had surrendered to the swings of his spear, before being dragged to the trap and shut up alive. They had no interest in a dead hog. Even when confronted by a raging boar, they would balk from killing it. They would wound it, just a little, before forcing it into to the trap. They didn't want the hogs to die, because they would later throw them into battle with the ajaks, in a public spectacle at the end of the hunting season. During these strategic hunts for these stupid beasts, Margio became known as the herder, with his powerful strides and ruthless spear. Not many had the courage to take up that role, running alongside the boar, matching its pace. It was a feat that earned Margio the admiration of his companions.

A few weeks earlier, Sadrah had been dismayed to learn that Margio had disappeared. Gone and nobody knew where. Some of his friends went looking for him on the shore, where he had often disappeared to pull up nets or hunt for stingrays with the fishermen, but no one there had seen him. For the two previous weeks, a circus had encamped by the soccer field, and everyone finally concluded that Margio most likely had joined the performers, moving from town to town. The idea sent Sadrah, who was ready with the vicious ajaks to welcome the boar-hunting season, into panic. As herder, Margio was irreplaceable. The first hunt the previous week had ended in disappointment. They had trapped only two boars and mostly because of the ajaks' agility. On that same day they heard that Margio's father had died.

His name was Komar bin Syueb, and his death brought his missing son home. No one was happier on his return than Sadrah, who had been heartbroken by failure of the hunt. But Sadrah dared not invite him to return to the jungle the following Sunday, out of respect for the mourning period. When the hunters jumped off their truck, with two squealing pigs in a cage, and dozens of hounds bound to each other by leather leashes, Margio showed up. He waved at them, jaunty despite the fact of his father waited to be buried.

Not long after the funeral, Margio came to Sadrah's house. He patted the hounds in the backyard with affection. He squatted there, cuddling the beasts one by one, scrubbing wax from their ears, and letting the animals bite the hem of his pants and his flip-flops. His face showed not a trace of grief. Instead he looked incredibly happy, as if he had unexpectedly won a big bet.

Major Sadrah had long known that the boy didn't get along with his father, and even suspected he wanted the old man dead. He had known the family since they first came to the village, and Margio was just a snotty child with a bag of marbles with which he enticed the other children into playing with him. Sadrah also got to know the father, and had seen the brutal man beat the child for the smallest of offenses. Now his father was gone, the ingenuous kid couldn't hide his joy, Sadrah thought, and when Margio saw him approaching, without hesitation he asked whether there would be a hunt the next week. He wanted to join in, even if he had to bring his own lunch and give up his place as herder.

But of course Sadrah gave him back his position.

Well, it was now clear he wouldn't be there next Sunday to herd the boars. Wretched kid, Sadrah thought. Earlier, when he was carrying the sword home, propping it on his shoulder with his legs wrapped in a sarong, feeling as if he were living in the war-torn era of the caliphs, it never occurred to him that Margio would join in if there were a fight. The boys fought a lot, drunk or sober. They were always eager to start throwing punches at the slightest provocation: an inadvertent collision at a
dangdut
show, a head blocking the view of a movie screen, or the sight of a girl they liked walking with another man. Living in a generally more peaceful period in the Republic's history, in which the business of war was left to soldiers, made these boys reckless. During the years when Sadrah commanded the town's soldiers, stopping these fights occupied him more than anything else. But as far as he knew, Margio was never a figure in this violence, despite everyone knowing his strength.

He was a kid who didn't like staying at home, but he was well behaved. He wasn't stupid enough to waste his time brawling, and during the day he would do odd jobs and spend the money he made on cigarettes and beer. He was moody, but sweet nonetheless. Everyone knew he hated his father and thought he was capable of finishing him off, but he never tried anything like that. He was absolutely not a troublemaker. When Sadrah heard Margio had killed a man, he could not believe it.