Free Man Tiger by Eka Kurniawan Page B

in fur, a yellowish glint in its eyes. She heard an echoing roar and saw a white shadow dance in its pupils. She almost screamed before it disappeared again, settled behind a cage door that seemed to be shut tight. Margio had confined it, suppressed its savagery.
    After the episode with the pan, Komar incarcerated himself in his bedroom, went out only to go to his barbershop, and returned to nestle in bed. Those were the moments when he thought Margio would attack, if not actually kill him. The boy had suddenly grown terrifying. Komar found himself weighing up his son’s statistics, his present age, height, weight, as if Margio were a prizefighter, and worst of all was the possibility that he had inherited that damned tiger. The old man was wise enough not to worsen the friction between them. Margio was no longer the meek and submissive lad, sitting quietly in a corner of the house or leaving without a word. He could handle himself, and Komar bin Syueb knew better than to test those young muscles.
    Later, Mameh saw her father leave his room, looking sweet as pie. No longer his old talkative self, Komar addressed himself to the chores he had often neglected. He took the palm leaf broom and began sweeping the floor, over and over, even though it was clean, and in the morning and afternoon he filled up the tub for them to wash. The next day, Mameh lost more of her regular tasks as, out of the blue, he deigned to wash their clothes. Mameh wanted to stop all this sweetness, annoyed that her father should have any energy left after his stint at the barbershop. He should have been tired out on his return, but he didn’t seem to care. He ignored Mameh and left her with almost nothing to do.
    She came to understand his intentions when she noticed the man himself slaughtering the chickens for Marian’s seventh-day ritual. She only had to look at him to grasp the truth, as if a certain fate were written on his forehead. He was trying in vain to make peace with them, to erase the rancid traces that went a long way back. It was a vain effort. No one was moved by this overflow of questionable kindness. It was sad, too, because everybody felt it was too late for him to start again.
    Margio was the least forgiving. His father’s meekness was fuel to his son’s hatred, which burned brighter than ever the minute the old man’s intentions became clear. Don’t think I’ll forgive you, Margio thought. He left the house, unwilling to help with whatever Komar was doing, and wandered around various places, kicking the walls of the nightwatch post, drinking at Agus Sofyan’s stall, or hurling coconuts in the abandoned plantation, while his father cleaned the chickens by himself, plucking their feathers, carrying the bodies to the kitchen, boiling and frying them, and cooking rice as well. Before dusk he visited the neighbors, inviting them to come after the Isha prayer, to gather together and read the Yassin, for the comfort of Marian’s soul.
    Margio returned after the neighbors had left, and the mats were still spread out. Up till then everything had been handled by Komar bin Syueb alone. Neither Mameh nor her mother had lifted a finger. Komar told Margio to eat—there was fried chicken and rice and potato stew—but Margio didn’t want to touch it. He passed through the kitchen and went into his bedroom, came out again, went to the bathroom to piss and then stepped onto the terrace and stood under a lantern. Mameh came out to coax him to eat, but Margio’s only response was to light a cigarette.
    In the dim light, Mameh saw the increasingly luminous sheen and the yellow glint in his eyes. She still remembered how Margio had wanted to kill Komar. His eyes shone brilliantly with sharp, piercing rays, and Mameh thought that his stare alone could kill Komar bin Syueb. But she could see the boy’s suffering, too. Sweet Margio was at war with evil Margio, and it wouldn’t end until his