Man Tiger Read Free

barren from lack of care, their fruit shriveled and thin, like bird’s eye chilis. The leaves were of use only to the tempeh factories, which collected them every night. Through this plantation ran a creek full of snakeheads and eels, its overflow swelling the swamp around it. Not long after the plantation was declared bankrupt, people had arrived to put up boundary stakes, clear away the water hyacinths and vast tangles of kangkong , and plant the marsh with rice. Kyai Jahro had come with them, but had grown rice for only one season. Rice required too much attention and time. Jahro, who had never heard of Orion—the short-season cultivar— replaced his rice with peanuts, which were more resilient and less trouble. At harvest time his fields yielded two sacks of pods that made him wonder how he would ever eat them all. So he turned his parcel of marsh into a pond and threw in some mujair and nila fry, and it became his favorite pastime to feed his fish before sundown, to watch them mouthing at the brimming water’s surface.
    He was spreading bran from the rice mill, as well as cassava and papaya leaves, on the water where his fish bobbed animatedly, when a motorcycle roared in the distance. He knew the sound so well he didn’t bother to turn his head. It was even more familiar than the sound of the surau’s drum that beat five times a day. It was Major Sadrah’s shiny, bright-red Honda 70, which carried its owner to the surau, or brought his wife to the market, and at other times simply glided through the neighborhood in late afternoons, spinning around quiet corners when Sadrah had nothing else to do.
    He was past eighty, Major Sadrah, but still in good shape. He had retired from the military many years ago, but every Independence Day stood among his fellow veterans. The city government was said to have given him a plot of land in the heroes’ cemetery as a reward for his service, something he described as an invitation to die quickly. He swerved on his motorcycle and halted by the dike. After killing the engine, he wiped his mouth, above which lowered a dark mustache, for without this gesture he would not feel like himself. Jahro did not look up until Major Sadrah stood by his side. They talked about the previous night’s rainstorm, which fortunately hadn’t come during the herbal tonic company’s film screening at the soccer field, although it must have nearly broken the hearts of every pond owner.
    A similar rainstorm had come months ago, lasting one whole week. The creek, normally more mud than water, rose six feet, sweeping hosts of geese downstream, until the ponds around it disappeared. The fish, which would have filled the bellies of the villagers and their children, disappeared almost entirely. When the water subsided, all that was left were snails and the stems of banana plants. Jahro looked at Major Sadrah and said he had prepared some nets to cover his ponds and protect the fish in future.
    At that moment, an old man on a bicycle, stooping to avoid the cacao branches above, called out to Jahro. Ma Soma, who taught children how to read the Koran at the surau, jumped off just in time to stop the bike hitting the dike. With both fists still firm on the handlebars, the bicycle reared up, like a horse yanked by its reins. Panting, he told them that Margio had killed Anwar Sadat. He said it in a manner suggesting that Jahro should hasten to lead the funeral prayers, for this had been one of his duties these past years.
    â€œBy God,” said Major Sadrah. For a moment they exchanged baffled glances, as if it were a joke they couldn’t understand. “This afternoon I saw him carrying that war relic of an old, rusty samurai sword. Darned kid, I hope he didn’t get it back after I’d confiscated the damn thing.”
    â€œHe didn’t,” said Ma Soma. “The kid bit through his jugular.”
    No one had ever heard of such a thing. There had been