Man Tiger (5 page)

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?”

Anwar Sadat could reply only with a dying yowl. Margio replied with one deadly bite, gnawing and ripping out a lump of flesh, making a gaping hole in the man's neck. Delicate veins and tendons hung from the torn flesh, and the blood spurted. The tasteless piece of meat rested in Margio's mouth until he abruptly spat it on the floor, where it squirmed here and there. Anwar Sadat began to fly, his throat making unearthly sounds, while Margio's face was painted with gushing blood.

“Papa, what was that?” Maesa Dewi asked again.

Anwar Sadat was fluttering his wings, carried away by unconsciousness. Margio still held him tight, keeping him from falling. As soon as he heard Maesa Dewi's high-pitched anxious voice, 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 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:

“My 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.

“Who 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:

“He'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.

“I arrested him to prevent any unnecessary act of vengeance,” Joni Simbolon said.

“Nonsense, 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, for some secret motive no one yet understood. His wife, who accompanied him and had been among the mourning women, whispered something that had become common knowledge, that the girl was crazy about Margio. But Major Sadrah hadn't seen any sign of Anwar Sadat objecting.