Man Tiger by Eka Kurniawan Read Free Book Online Page B

of Anwar Sadat’s neck. He saw it hit the ground, the size of a piece of tofu, and the sight of it sent the entire contents of his stomach surging, assaulting his throat with a bitter, sour taste. Leaning against the tree, the boy vomited the noodles he had for breakfast. It was some time before the turmoil in his bowels came to an end. He was still gagging though there was nothing left to throw up. He left the starfruit tree, guided by the loud noises of the gamblers and the whistles on the pigeons’ tails.
    That was when Ma Soma emerged from the surau and saw him lurching unsteadily, smeared with blood. Alarmed, he almost ran after him, but then froze at the trail of red footprints the length of the yard from the house. He saw the overflowing puddle on the doorstep, and his feet pushed him to go forward, where he caught sight of the corpse lying solemnly in wait. His mind was nothing but a void until a voice inside him whispered in explanation. He lifted Maesa Dewi onto the couch, and grabbed a batik cloth to cover Anwar Sadat’s corpse. Someone else, at the side of the soccer field, saw Margio and shouted:
    â€œMy God, someone’s beaten Margio to a pulp.”
    The hubbub stopped and heads turned. Margio walked toward them, bringing cars to a halt, making motorbikes skid to a halt. People stared at him as if he were a premature ghost, out in the daylight. The birds became still, and the children stopped playing. Time was bound to a stake. They circled him, keeping their distance, as if he were likely to explode. They were struck dumb until one of them, Agung Yuda, got hold of a single clear question.
    â€œWho beat you up?”
    Margio stood there, unresponsive and uncomprehending. He recognized the faces around him, and at the same time he didn’t. Agung Yuda, whose dumb head couldn’t wrap itself around the likeliest explanation, approached and sniffed him to make sure it was real blood and not wall paint. Once he had convinced himself this was a face no longer sweet or polite, but tragic, he found a simple explanation, one he realized was actually smart when it dawned on him, and he blurted out an important declaration:
    â€œHe’s not hurt.” That was a fact.
    The night tumbled upon them, buoying the stars and hanging up a severed moon. The lamps in the front yards and along the streets were coming on, and the flying foxes were no longer visible, for the darkness enveloped their black bodies. Joni Simbolon dragged Margio off to the subdistrict military headquarters. This always happened before a suspect was sent to the police station. It provided the soldiers with some much-needed fun in a republic no longer at war. They locked him up in a cell, put him in a black uniform that smelled of mothballs and wooden cupboards, and let him curl up on a mattress facing a cup of warm milk he did not drink and a plate of rice and tuna he did not touch.
    Major Sadrah visited him after the funeral prayers to make sure they didn’t mistreat him. Soldiers on duty were always itching to deal roughly with any captured prey. They still respected the old veteran and would listen to what he said. So he hurried down there, where people milled around the Siliwangi tiger statue and the flagpole, laughing. They turned to him expectantly, hoping for a still more amazing story.
    â€œI arrested him to prevent any unnecessary act of vengeance,” Joni Simbolon said.
    â€œNonsense, Anwar’s three children are all women,” said the old veteran.
    But there were still relatives, and others who might not be happy about the brutality of what had taken place in their neighborhood. Sadrah told them to keep him locked up until dawn, when the police would come. He wondered how Maharani would react if she came home tomorrow morning and found that her father was dead and the killer the boy who had taken her to the movies. The crime was cut and dried, but he was looked for the malevolent spirit behind it,