Eka Kurniawan - Man Tiger

Maharani would sit on the sofa with Margio to watch the afternoon TV shows, and anyone could see they were like a couple of tamed lovers, born to be together. Since such behavior was allowed, Margio grew fonder of Anwar’s home than his own. He enjoyed eating bags of chips with Maharani, but the awkwardness deep inside never faded. He continually reminded himself that the intimacy would be temporary — a brief delight. Maharani would find another man and fall in love with him and soon forget the boy named Margio. The boy always stood ready for the day when the name Maharani would be merely a sweet memory.

When Anwar Sadat sent the girl east to university, Margio told himself that this was freedom. It was better for him to see her choose another man and ignore him than to be continually tortured by the possibility of having her. He was sure there would be loads of boys at university, most of them damn smart, none of whom would fail to notice the arrival of a beautiful girl. They would compete for her, and in time Maharani would be caught. Margio was full of this dismal hope when he saw her leave, as he carried her bags. Maharani was leaving with Anwar Sadat, catching the bus outside their house, which waited next to the oil palm trees. Margio lifted the heavy bags into the trunk as Maharani kissed the hands of her mother, then Laila and Maesa Dewi, before standing before him and unexpectedly asking him for his hand. Margio let his hand be kissed, which caused his stomach to lurch. But it was nothing compared to the time when her hand suddenly gripped his arm tightly, not to ask for a goodbye kiss, but as a loving touch, that night when the herbal tonic company organized the free film screening at the soccer field.

But her departure didn’t set Margio free. Whenever Maharani was on vacation she would come home, always hoping Margio would be there, hoping to have him to herself. Instead of loosening, the cords bound them together ever more firmly. On their date-like little rendezvous, Maharani would tell him about all the things she had seen at university in such a way that the stories felt like Margio’s, too. At this point Maharani hadn’t gotten used to holding his hand when they walked side by side, although everyone they knew talked about the young lovers. As Major Sadrah’s wife put it: “That girl is crazy about Margio.”

Now, on the night of the Tonic Company’s film screening, the girl was impatient to make sure that Margio knew about the love rooted firmly in her body, and it was clear to Margio that the girl was his, although the awkwardness and discomfort still constrained him. Maharani remained an untouchable beauty.

They stepped away from the peanut vendor and walked to a grassy mound where people sat during football matches, under the lush shadow of a tropical almond tree. They sat close, and Margio could smell her scent. Her hair stroked his face when the wind impishly pulled at it. He still couldn’t believe she had confessed her love for him, a confirmation that the oval face, still glowing in the darkness, might be his, a masterpiece in his possession. He was stunned.

Maharani took Margio’s hand, lifted it, and coiled it round her body. He was holding the girl clumsily now, unsure whether to hold her tight, bringing the skin of his wrist against her bare waist, or simply hang onto her sweater. She lowered her head, and looped her own arm around Margio, bringing them closer together, their breathing finding a single rhythm. This is what it feels like to belong — the thought dawned on them almost simultaneously, as the gods of love hummed above their heads.

Down on the field, there was some kind of dispute. People were yelling. Night had deepened, and the crowd was tired of buying tonics. They wanted prizes. The voluble salesman, who had been handing out tonics as though the company were his, apologized and made the excuse that he still had buyers to serve and that no one had yet won the television set. If truth be told, the television set was a display item that would never actually change hands, though it was a charm far more alluring than the man’s frothy mouth behind the microphone. Then, after handling the last of the transactions, he shut the doors on the pickup, only to reopen them when the time came to replace the film reel. The projector’s light now fell on the white screen, which waved slightly in the wind, while people clapped and others whistled.

The film was the old classic Cintaku di Kampus Biru , famous for its provocative kissing scenes.

Margio and Maharani didn’t pay much attention, not only because the screen was far away and the sound drowned by the audience’s excited voices. They were too occupied with interpreting their bodies as they leant against each other, exchanging warmth as the air grew thick. It looked as if there would be heavy rain that night. Margio could feel the blood rushing faster in Maharani’s body, just like in his own.

Maharani stirred a little and looked up at Margio’s stubbly chin. She stared at him fixedly, as if something were moving on his face. Breathless, he realized it was time to act as a man and a lover. He returned that interrogating gaze of hers, their faces close, breathing the same air, feeling the breath on their faces, while their chests heaved in unison. The girl’s eyes, shaded under curved lashes, dimmed by the light from street lamps and the cloud-swathed moon, looked at him longingly, and Margio knew what she wanted, but not what to do.

The girl was exasperated by his stupidity. Maharani was on the hunt, and Margio nearly choked, but tried to keep his pride intact by waiting for the girl’s lips to touch his. They had no idea how to begin, but pressed their mouths together, exchanging warmth and feeling the silkiness of each other’s tongue.

They stopped abruptly — feeling conspicuous on the soccer field, though no one was watching — and stared at each other. The girl’s eyes twinkled, and Margio looked sad. “There’s something you don’t know,” he said forlornly, so softly the words went unheard. Pain welled up at the thought that despite their new intimacy, he couldn’t share his deepest anguish. Maharani became uncomfortable. He was detached, and she sat up, no longer leaning on his shoulder. The pain in Margio increased, but he was afraid to lose the girl he worshiped. Maharani threw him a look of bewilderment, which was only translated when she opened her mouth.

“Don’t you like me?”

The question pierced him. Of course he did. More than heaven or earth, he worshiped Maharani. He wanted her, but was shackled by the thought he didn’t deserve her.

“I’m nervous,” he whispered.

It set him free for a while. Maharani seemed to like the idea, I’m nervous . His insecurity smacked of romance. After all, they should be nervous. She was, too, and together they would cope with what was before them and grow in confidence. As they sat there, Maharani melting against him once more, his discomfort returned. He had lied about his nerves. The problem had a different complexion. It kept him from embracing her fiery love — it made him curse his inability to be honest with her.

Maharani came home the day after Margio’s return, perhaps having heard of Komar bin Syueb’s death. She said she was on vacation. Margio believed that, vacation or no, the girl had come back to comfort him, to sweep away his grief. Of course, she had misunderstood the situation. Margio wasn’t sad at all.

Maharani visited his home every day, sometimes to eat with the family, her presence a reminder of the old days when Margio ate at Anwar Sadat’s house. They grew closer, reaffirming the attraction founded between them a long time ago. One day Maharani asked him to take her to Komar’s grave, misinterpreting his feelings. But Margio firmly said no. Maharani began to remember the old stories everyone told her about Komar bin Syueb’s cruelty. She had seen it for herself when he whacked little Margio with a clothes-drying pole. She sensed for the first time the long history of pain behind Margio, and she wanted her love to be a balm and consolation to him.