Paul Theroux - The Consul's File

Stanley Ghee was still studying the mob in the road. He said, 'This tiger killed someone.'

'No,' said Angela, touching her throat.

'They have the body — there, you can see them carrying it.'

If it had been a car accident none of us would have gone near. Malays have been known to overturn a vehicle and kill the driver at the scene of an accident. But with Stanley's assurance that it was a tiger we left the verandah and met the procession.

And that is when I saw the corpse, which as I say was much worse than that poor epileptic's. It was clearly a small girl. She had been torn open, partially eaten — or at least frantically chewed — and flayed like a rabbit. Her blood stained the sheets they were carrying her in: red blossoms soaked it. Nor was that all, for just behind the first group there was another group, with a smaller sheet, and this bundle contained Aziza's head.

People were running from all directions, the Chinese from the shops, Peeraswami and his Tamil pals from the post office; and the Malays continued to shout while the impassive Stanley said, 'They found her in the lallang like that — they think it was a tiger. She is the daughter of Salim the carpenter.'

While we were standing there I got a sudden chill that made me hunch my shoulders. I thought it was simple fear and did not notice the sky darkening until it had gone almost black. Bizarre: but the monsoon is like that, bringing a dark twilight at noon. The bamboos started cracking against each other, the banana leaves turned over and twisted in the wind, the grass parted and flattened — pale green undersides were whipped horizontal. And there was that muffled announcement of a tropical storm, the distant weeping of rain on leaves. I looked up and saw it approaching, the grey skirt of the storm being drawn towards us. The Malays began running again with their corpse, but they had not gone thirty yards when the deluge was upon us, making a deafening crackle on the road and gulping in the nearby ditches.

The rice was planted. The rain continued.

It was about a month after this that we heard the news of the lawsuit. It was Peeraswami who explained it to me, and I am ashamed to say I didn't believe him. I needed the confirmation of Squibb and the others at the Club, but they didn't know half as much as my peon. For example, Peeraswami not only knew the details of the lawsuit but all that background as well — the arrangement that had been made in the bomoh's hut and that tantalizing scrap of dialogue, 'It is tiger's work.'

What happened was this. After the death of little Aziza — after the first of the rain — the kampong held a meeting. Salim was wretched: the rain was proof of his daughter's curse. And yet it was decided that the remainder of the money would not be paid to the bomoh, Salim said that whoever paid it would be regarded as the murderer of Aziza — and that man would be killed; also, the penghulu, the headman, pointed out that the fields were full, the rice was planted, and even if it did not rain for another six months it would be a good harvest. The bomoh had brought the rain, but he could not take it away. A Larut boy — in town selling butterflies to tourists — was given the message. There was no response from the bomoh. None was expected: it was unanswerable, the matter settled.

Then the bomoh acted. Astonishing! He was suing the kampong's headman for non-payment of the debt, a hundred and fifty Straits dollars plus costs. Peeraswami had the news before anyone. A day later the whole of Ayer Hitam knew.

'Apart from anything else,' said Squibb, 'they'll tear him apart as soon as they set eyes on him.'

'He's a monster,' said Angela.

'He must be joking,' said Lloyd Strang, the government surveyor.

'If the kampong don't kill him, the court will,' said Alec Stewart.

We consulted Stanley Ghee.

'You don't know these Malay boys,' he said. 'They are very silly.'

I had to ask him to repeat that. The rain made a clatter on the roof, like a shower of tin discs. Now we were always shouting, and the monsoon drains, four feet deep, were filled to the brim.

The bomoh was taken into protective custody and a magistrate was sent from Seremban to hear the case. The week of the trial no one worked. It was like Ramadhan: a sullenness came over the town, the streets were empty and held a damp still smell of desertion. Down by the jail a group of Malays sheltered under the eaves from the rain and called out abuse to the upper window.

I knew the court would be jammed, so the morning of the trial I drove in my official car with the C C plates and parked conspicuously by the front steps. A policeman opened the door and waving the crowd aside showed me in. I saw the bomoh, sitting at a side-table with an Indian lawyer. At a table opposite were the gloomy Malays, the headman, Salim, some others, and their Chinese lawyer. Two fans were beating in the courtroom, and yet it was terribly hot; the windows were shut to keep the rain out, sealing the sodden heat in.

The bomoh took his spectacles off and polished them with his shirt-tail. He had looked like a petty clerk; now he looked only frail, with close-set eyes and a narrow head. He replaced his glasses and laid his skinny arms on the table. The Indian lawyer, whose suit was stained with dark patches of sweat, leaned over and whispered to him. The bomoh nodded.

'The court will now rise.'

The magistrate entered, a Chinese man in a black robe and a ragged wig. He sat — dropped behind the tall bench until only his head showed — and fussed with papers. He called upon the bomoh's lawyer to present the case, which, flourishing a truncheon of rolled foolscap, the Indian did, 'My client is owed the sum—'

The headman was called. The Chinese lawyer squawked something about 'blood money' and was silenced by the magistrate. Twenty minutes of wrangling, then the magistrate said, 'I have heard both sides of this unusual case. I order that Penghulu Ismail pay within thirty days the sum of one hundred and fifty—'

There were shouts, screams, stampings, and a woman's wail briefly drowned the rain.

'Silence or I'll clear the court! '

The magistrate continued with his verdict. So it was settled. The kampong had to pay the debt and the court costs. When the magistrate had finished, the clerk of the court stood and shouted above the hubbub, 'The court will now adjourn.'

'What happens now?' I said.

A fat Tamil in a light seersucker suit next to me said, 'They are going to try the blighter for murder.'

I was afraid that if I left the court I'd lose my seat, so I stayed and talked to this Indian. He had come all the way from Singapore. He was a lawyer there in a firm that handled mostly shipping cases—'but I'm on the criminal side myself.' This was a celebrated case: he knew the bomoh's lawyer and he explained the defence.

'Well, it's a fine point. A British court would have thrown the book at him, but these Malay chaps are trying to do things their own way.' He grinned, displaying a set of rusted betel-stained teeth. 'Justice must be seen to be done. It's not so simple with these witch-doctors. They're always giving trouble. Traditional law — it's a big field— they're going into it in K.L. In a nutshell, this silly blighter bomoh is claiming he did not do the murder. Yes, there was a murder, but a tiger did it. You see?'

'But he won the other case — he got the money. So he must be guilty.'

'Not necessarily. Contract was made with him. Breach was proven — you heard it.'

'Which means he killed the girl.' 'No, tiger killed girl.' 'But he's the tiger.' 'No, he is man. Tiger is tiger.' 'I don't get it,' I said.

The Indian sighed. 'Man cannot be tiger. If tiger killed girl, tiger must be brought to trial. If tiger cannot be found, man must be released.'