Man Tiger by Eka Kurniawan Read Free Book Online Page A

the rustle of a blanket, the creaking of a bed, and the sound of feet on the floor, Margio sank his teeth once more into the dark red wet hollow, a second kiss more lethal than the first, and driven by a vast desire. He clenched his jaws more tightly, tore off another lump of flesh, and spat it out. He kept at it, biting repeatedly, as though driven by an unfathomable hunger, making the hole deeper and messier, bubbles and waves of blood freely spattering the floor.
    He nearly chewed off the head, gnawing at Anwar Sadat’s neck until the trachea was visible, a flash of ivory before the flooding red. The bedroom door partly opened, and Maesa Dewi stood there in white satin pajamas with a peony motif and one cheek marked by lines left from the folds of her pillow. Her half-awake eyes quickly widened and her slender hand jerked up, fingers covering her open mouth, unable to make a sound.
    The scene was forever burned into Maesa Dewi’s retinas, there for years, unexpunged for decades, an image more brutal than any horror film. She saw the half-severed neck; even the throats of cows slaughtered for the Festival of Sacrifice never looked that ghastly. There were clods of flesh scattered all over the floor, like spilled spaghetti sauce. The white tiled floor with its streaks of red blood resembled the national flag. And still standing there was Margio, his face a mask of gore, nearly unrecognizable, while his hands and shirt were just as repulsive. For a moment they exchanged a glance at the strangest threshold of conscience, in a state where both comprehended the hideousness of what had happened.
    Maesa Dewi registered a strange and pungent odor, like garlic, floating thick in the air in gray clouds, hovering around her tresses and tumbling around her shoulders, so intense that it made her light-headed. Other confused sensations came over her: a stale sour taste, the clamor of insects humming, a churning in her bowels. Maesa Dewi saw a bright but unrecognizable blur, radiating a glare that made her squint, pushing her back until her head knocked against the door, which propped her up for a moment before she sank to the floor. Her body slumped, not in the way of someone sleeping peacefully, but more like a princess swiftly turned to stone. She even forgot how to scream, and forgot where she was. All the bits and pieces of what had just happened created a racket that woke her child, who now sat up with a wide-open mouth, crying, peeing, calling his mother the only way he could. Maesa Dewi slept on, collapsed on the floor and without a blanket.
    Margio loosened his grip, stepped away from Anwar Sadat, and found a handful of the man’s hair slipping through his fingers. The body danced for a moment, without rhythm, before slithering and crashing to the floor. Margio looked at him, watching carefully, until he was certain the man was dead. Had the severing of his jugular not introduced Anwar Sadat to the Angel of Death, the crack of his head on the floor would have completed the formalities. There he lay, with his navel exposed under the ABC jewelry store undershirt, like a helpless old man after a vicious ajak attack. This is how Ma Soma and others would find him.
    Margio was fascinated by his masterpiece, which was more thrilling to the soul than one of Raden Saleh’s cheap reproductions that hung above the television set. A whirlwind spun in his head. He couldn’t remember the way to the door, and fumbled about as the world suddenly became dark. Like Anwar Sadat, he danced for a while, twisting about but never falling, before steering himself toward the rear of the sofa, leaving a trail of red footprints. Margio dragged himself out, crawling inch by inch, and collapsed on the side porch.
    The taste in his mouth forced the memory of the carnage upon him, and his primal instinct told him to walk away. Margio got to his feet, not exactly upright, and stumbled toward the starfruit tree, where he spat out the last bit