Eka Kurniawan - Man Tiger

Agung Yuda was one of those who witnessed how exceedingly happy the young man was when he came home to find his father dead. He thought that with Komar bin Syueb’s death all the problems in the household would end. Now he realized that was nonsense. Agung Yuda thought Margio was feeling down, and all his rambling about a shameful idea and killing somebody was rubbish. Margio simply said what he did because he couldn’t think of anything better to say.

“Laksamana Raja di Di Laut,” a dangdut song, was playing on Agus Sofyan’s dual-band radio, hanging near the door of the stall, an asset that, cranked up to full volume, enlivened every morning, afternoon, and evening. The radio was an old Panasonic, designed to run on batteries, wired up clumsily to the electrics. A customer had once used the top of the case as a fan and never remembered to return it, and the insides hung out in a messy tangle. But the half-dead machine could make enough noise to be heard booming at half the soccer field’s distance and, on certain days, people would huddle near it to listen to the league soccer games. The rest of the time it was tuned to a station devoted to dangdut and other types of pop music. The din added to the yells of those gambling on the pigeon races as they tried to urge the birds onward.

Agung Yuda took from his pocket a half-full pack of Marlboros and gave one to Margio, who rolled it around between his fingers without lighting it. He was good at this, having mastered the trick using a ballpoint pen whenever he felt bored at school. Some friends copied him, giving the trick a try with a lit cigarette. Margio emptied his beer then stood up to leave.

“I forgot that I had to see Anwar Sadat,” he said, without saying why.

He lit the cigarette before leaving. Agung Yuda still had no notion that Margio was going to kill Anwar Sadat. He watched Margio walk away, his tentative steps making it clear he wasn’t sure whether to go or stay with Agung Yuda on the bench. But after looking back for a moment at his buddy, he headed off, the cigarette clasped between his lips. The cigarette crackled, glowing bright in the late-afternoon breeze, wisps of smoke rising around his head.

Twenty minutes later Agung Yuda regretted letting him go. He was still slumped on the bench, thinking that he had no problem with Anwar Sadat, so had no urge to follow Margio. His beer still filled half the glass. It had become their habit to savor every sip, making one glass last through hours of conversation. But with Margio gone, Agung Yuda might as well drain his glass. A few drops trickled down his chin, and he wiped them off with the hem of his shirt and tossed the cigarette to the ground, crushing it under his sandal. Inside the stall sat a coy woman who flirted with him. Agung Yuda put his arm around her shoulders and the woman laughed, until his hand slipped into her bra and squeezed.

The woman wriggled and cursed, brushing him off, but Agung Yuda was laughing when he left her. He pissed against an electricity pole, then headed for the soccer field, and all the while, unknown to him, the hour drew closer when Margio would kill Anwar Sadat.

At that precise moment, Anwar Sadat was feeding his tame turkeys with a plate of leftover rice from the kitchen, fattening them up in the hope he could butcher them for the Lebaran holiday. Nearby, Ma Soma was sweeping the surau’s yard, meaning Anwar Sadat’s yard, cleaning away the fallen, yellow starfruit leaves and the rotten, maggot-ridden fruits, squishy from the heavy rain. They didn’t exchange words, but acknowledged each other imperceptibly. Ma Soma finally left to clean the surau’s water tubs of moss and ferns, and Anwar Sadat went into his kitchen to return the dirty plate.

He was the only one home apart from Maesa Dewi, who lay curled up on her bed, keeping her little boy company during his afternoon nap. This woman hadn’t done much since her return with the newborn and her then future husband. Mostly she just lay in bed with her baby and finished up the cooked rice from the kitchen cupboard. Kasia had kicked the husband out to find a job, so he’d become the manager of a nearly bankrupt cinema away from the village, and returned just once a month with some money that Maesa Dewi would use up in a week. Kasia didn’t care to think about them much, and Anwar Sadat couldn’t really help as long as their primary finances lay in Kasia’s grip, so he let the woman and child become parasites, just like Laila.

Anwar Sadat didn’t see the boy wandering about in the yard, looking wildly nervous and pale. Then Margio stood leaning against the starfruit tree, staring into the house, catching glimpses of the man. It wasn’t like anyone would have thought Margio really intended to kill him. Several people at the soccer field saw him, and Ma Soma, who came to throw a wastebasket full of moss and ferns into the garbage pit, spotted him and saw that he was unarmed. No one could have suspected Margio was about to commit murder, because for that he would have to be carrying a knife or a cleaver or a rope. Who could predict he might end a man’s life with a bite? When Ma Soma passed by yet again, they still didn’t speak. Margio was just languidly kicking at the tire swing, and appeared at one moment to be on the verge of leaving the yard. But he stayed there, like a thief looking for an opening, feeling he might be watched in turn. The people at the soccer field saw him for sure, but they knew Margio too well to be suspicious. No one gave a damn, and it seemed that Ma Soma wouldn’t pop up again, as he was pumping well water to fill up the surau’s tubs. The front door was now open, and it looked like Anwar Sadat was about to get some fresh air. Margio started to move.

At nearly ten past four, Anwar Sadat was leaving the house to look for someone to talk to at the soccer field. Just as he got no pleasure from watching cockfights, he was not much into pigeons either, though he would watch a race once in a while and place a bet just to be sociable. He was still wearing the shorts and the ABC jewelry store undershirt he had worn at the pancake stall that morning, and would die in that same attire. As soon as he noticed Margio walking toward him, Anwar Sadat froze, never making it past the door, as he waited for the boy, feeling that something was up. He was thinking of Maharani. Like Laila, Anwar Sadat knew the girl had been with this kid the previous night at the herbal tonic company’s film screening. Anwar Sadat was hoping to find out why she had left so suddenly. He waited until Margio walked in and stood before him, but he didn’t say a word about Maharani. His face was still pale and his lips quivered, as though it was Anwar Sadat who was going to dish out trouble.

As Margio later confessed to the police, yes, he killed the man by biting through an artery in his neck. There was no other weapon available, he said. He had thought about hitting him, knowing for certain that Anwar Sadat had grown feeble and lacked the strength to fight back. But Margio doubted his fists could end the man’s life. He didn’t believe he could strangle him either. A chair would only break a few bones, and the noise would wake Maesa Dewi. He hadn’t seen her, but knew she would be in her room, just as she was every day.

The idea came to him all of a sudden, as a burst of light in his brain. He spoke of hosting something inside his body, something other than guts and entrails. It poured out and steered him, encouraging him to kill. That thing was so strong, he told the police, he didn’t need a weapon of any kind. He held Anwar Sadat tight. The man was startled and struggled, but the pressure holding his arms was intense. Margio yanked his head back by the hair and held it immobile. He sank his teeth into the left side of Anwar Sadat’s neck, like a man roughly kissing the skin below his lover’s ear, complete with grunts and passionate warmth. The victim was too confounded to make any sense of what was happening. Nevertheless, the piercing pain and the shock to his chest forced Anwar Sadat to squirm, kicking over a chair. The sound of it hitting the floor and Anwar Sadat’s brief yelp woke Maesa Dewi, who got up and asked from her room, “Papa, what was that?”