Man Tiger by Eka Kurniawan Page B

new owner wouldn’t lease them the godown, which he intended to turn into a shop selling toothbrushes, soap, and candy.
    â€œBesides,” Komar bin Syueb said, “we’ll all be living in our own house.”
    Margio wasn’t impressed. At seven years old, he was popular among his friends, leading them in eel hunts on joyful Sundays, selling the catch in the Monday market and taking the rest home to his mother. He went with the kids to collect firewood in the plantation, before it fell into neglect, and it was Margio among the boys who had to muster the courage to confront the foreman when he raised a stink because the boys knocked down the unripe fruits as they tore at the dead coconut fronds. He would sell the firewood, since his mother didn’t use a wood stove, and with the money he could buy marbles, as well as paper and thread to make kites. Plus he had more boxes of crickets than any kid his age. Little Margio thought he had it made, and viewed the move with grave suspicion.
    He sulked and threatened to run away. He would stay put even if it meant sleeping on a neighbor’s terrace, or in a shed in the cacao plantation. Finally, Komar dragged him to a corner of the godown and gave him a talking-to, calling him an ungrateful brat. Margio said nothing, so Komar bin Syueb told him to speak, and when Margio was about to open his mouth his father saw something insolent in his expression and landed a biting slap on his face. His cheeks reddened and his eyes turned wet, but Margio never let himself cry. He said nothing. Infuriated by his silence, Komar grabbed the rattan cane used to beat the mattress and slapped it against his son’s calf, making Margio slump against the wall with one leg up. He could resist, but he was going to lose.
    And so the mattress was rolled up, bound tightly with a plastic rope, and stacked on the cart over a sheet of wicker matting. The plate rack was attached at the rear, while the plates and glasses were in a basket, wrapped with fabric and pillows. The shaving kit was folded and hidden under a bag filled with their clothes, which was crammed in with the chairs and tables, their pan and buckets, a stove, and bowls. Margio sandwiched his boxes of crickets and marbles between the pillows, while the rubber-band-tied trading cards were stuffed into the pocket of the crimson-red school uniform shorts he was wearing. He stood there by the cow cart, in a shirt missing two buttons, his hair stiff and reddish, his slippers mismatched, until Komar told him to hop on once the tailgate was shut and they had said their goodbyes.
    If he were to recall the saddest day of his life, this would be it. Margio could see his mother’s reluctant face behind a veil she had never worn before, sat next to Komar. Margio wondered whether she was more upset about moving or losing her wedding ring. He had thought of his mother as an ally, but her silence made him realize how little help she would be, and in frustration he climbed onto the cart and perched on the mattress, watched by his friends, who were standing on the terrace where Komar bin Syueb had been plying his trade all these years.
    They weren’t really going far, but the cows’ sluggish pace and the choice of route dragged out the journey. Later on, Margio could walk to his old haunts and visit friends. Now mostly silent on the mattress, he sometimes lay on his back to stare at clouds or passing herons, sometimes turned to look at the meandering road behind him, stretching far into the distance, or propped his chin on his hands to watch the rolling pungent rice fields. Nuraeni didn’t say anything either, holding herself hunched as if tortured with shame. When they passed someone on the road, she gave no sign of acknowledgment. She might have been a newlywed guarding her dignity, except in her arms she held a daughter who, despite the rattling of the cart, slept like a log. Later on Margio would tell his sister how lucky