The Elephant and the Ant

It happened that very late one night, Kak Ani rattled the gate in front of Etno’s house.

Etno’s wife was a patient woman who could overlook Etno’s gambling and his little adventures with bar girls. Now she was angry.

“Astafrulallahzin, it’s bad enough we have to feed that miserable creature, now she comes at indecent hours to haunt us like a ghoul.”

Etno patted his wife’s flank as he rose from their bed. He slipped into his robe and went to the kitchen to gather Kak Ani’s parcel.

Kak Ani was a legacy. Many years before, Etno’s father had explained that the poor woman was a distant relative, once a beautiful young girl, who was raped by a gang of Batak boys. She lost her mind. For longer than Etno could remember his parents gave her a small package of food whenever she appeared. After their deaths the task fell on Etno. She never asked for money.

“Hello, Kak, what’s the news?” Etno mumbled as he passed the sack through the gate.

Kak Ani giggled. She looked awful, but that was nothing new. Her sparse, gray hair fell in matted ringlets to her waist. A piece of filthy burlap enveloped her from her collapsed breasts to her desiccated thighs.

“Yes, Etno, I always pray that you and your wife will someday be blessed.”

Etno said nothing. Three years had passed with no interrupted menstrual cycles. Only a crazy person would continually mention this sorrow.

Kak Ani coughed and spat, then probed the phlegm with her bare foot.

“You should think about adding another wife, Etno. This one is too pale and too narrow in the hips. The girl who lives with her aunt by the sate stand on the corner is always talking about you with her friends. You know the one, with the breasts like flowers pointed up to the sun and the buttocks of a young mare in heat. She’s only sixteen.”

Etno grunted. This was interesting news, but the girl in question was a neighbor from a good family. Too close to home. But interesting, none the less.

“Etno, I am just a nasty old woman who sleeps under a tree, but I see and hear everything. Insy’allah, even an ant can someday do a favor for an elephant.”

Etno laughed. This was the only thing he enjoyed about Kak Ani’s visits, hearing her little conceits. Sometimes she said that the mouse could someday aid the tiger, sometimes that the monkey would eventually rescue the crocodile.

Etno bade Kak Ani goodnight and returned to his bed.

The next afternoon Etno rode his motorcycle into the parking area of Pak Bolo’s house. The guard at the gate had grinned at him and shaken his head. As he greeted the bodyguards playing cards on the veranda, one made the clicking noise of a cik-cak lizard.

The men were warning him that Pak Bolo was in a foul mood. Now it was a question of whether Etno himself had incurred the old man’s displeasure. Etno kicked off his sandals and stepped onto the vast, polished teak floor of the living room. Pak Bolo was in his study. As Etno entered, the youngest wife hurried from the room. The bells on her ankle bracelets jingled. She winked at Etno.

Etno was never comfortable in Pak Bolo’s study. He found it a menacing place. Displayed on the walls, hanging from the ceiling and laying on numerous tables was Pak Bolo’s edged weapon collection, perhaps the finest in all of Sumatra. The piece de resistance was a Japanese samurai sword, which held the place of honor above Pak Bolo’s massive roll-top desk. The sword had belonged to the commanding officer of the Kota Kasar area Kempetai, the dreaded Japanese secret police. Its owner used it to behead dozens, possibly hundreds of unruly Indonesians before he was killed by Pak Bolo’s father, a legendary guerilla leader.

Etno was certain that other weapons in the vast sword, dagger and knife assortment had drawn blood and he felt the stubborn presence of the victims in that room.

It was a spectacular collection, but it was merely a hobby. Pak Bolo’s real passion was philately. He was hunched over a stamp album now, frowning and fiddling with a pair of tweezers.

Long minutes passed in silence.

“Tell me, Etno, do I employ stupid people?” asked Pak Bolo without looking up.

“I don’t understand, Pak.”

“Nor do I. Your father had a brilliant career in the Air Force. You weren’t bright enough to be an officer, but you had a couple years in a university and your father, my old friend, got you a post in the Air Force Police.

“Now I get a phone call from Captain Supratman. It seems you missed role call again this morning. Captain Supratman was concerned. He troubled to ask whether I could spare you for your normal duties.”

Pak Bolo finally raised his eyes from his stamps and stared at Etno. Like many ageing Javanese men, Pak Bolo had the pouched eyes and deep facial lines that seemed to convey a sad kindliness.

“I want to work for just you, Pak,”

“You’re no good to me without your official job. Without it, you’d be just another preman, another street thug. I’ve got plenty of those.

“Tell me, Etno, do you want to be one of my boys who cuts the faces of gambling deadbeats? Would that work employ your talents? Would you enjoy it?”

Etno stared down at his feet.

“I thought not. I had better things in mind for you, but you’re becoming a disappointment.”

Pak Bolo turned his attention back to his stamps. Etno waited, trying not to fidget. He heard the youngest wife scolding the cook in the kitchen. A dog barked outside.

“Do you like movies, Etno?”

“Oh yes, Pak.”

“I don’t mean the pornographic video disks I ship in from Malaysia. That shit will destroy a young man’s spirit. Do you ever go to the Indian theaters?”

“Well….”

“Of course you don’t. Only the poor watch those Hindu films. They can’t understand the words, but they don’t care. The tickets cost a quarter the price of a regular movie. For a few hundred rupiah they are transported to a happy place where handsome young people sing and dance their way through the dilemmas of life. All difficulties are overcome by singing and dancing. I vaguely remember seeing one that featured a bloody battle scene. In the end even the dead and wounded got up and danced.”

Etno laughed, then resumed a grave expression as Pak Bolo glared. Pak Bolo never joked.

“I have a job for you, an important one. Enemies, enemies with smiles and soft voices, are constantly trying my patience. These people are always probing, always looking for signs of weakness.

“One of the karaoke bars on the edge of Nibung Raya was recently converted into an Indian theater. If it were inside Nibung proper, there would be no question of control. Lee would run it.

“But the theater is in the same block as one of my gambling houses, and that impertinent Chinese dog has shown the bad manners inherent in his race. He sent a Mobil Brigade Policeman to watch over the place.”

Etno didn’t like what he was hearing. He glanced at the samurai sword and a thought occurred to him. The Mobile Brigade was the modern equivalent of the Japanese Kempetai. They were the men used by the Regime to instill fear, to shoot down crowds of demonstrators and terrorize the Acehnese by gang-raping their women.

Compared to the Mobil Brigade, Etno’s branch, the Air Force Police, were as harmless as school-crossing guards.

“What do you want me to do, Pak?”

“It’s clear enough, isn’t it? You will use your wits to persuade the Mobil Brigade man to turn over the theater to its rightful protector, me. As a reward, I am putting you in charge of collecting the rent. You may keep half.”

Pak Bolo raised his hand in a dismissive gesture. “Yes, I know the place brings in very little money. That’s not the point. That hideous Chinese man is testing me, looking for an opening, and if he succeeds he won’t stop there.

“Now go apologize to Captain Supratman and tell him your sense of duty has returned. You should spend your nights at home with your wife instead of chasing whores at all hours. It’s no mystery why you miss work.”

Etno bowed and stepped backwards to the door.

“And Etno?”

“Yes, Pak?”

“Don’t come back until you’ve settled the theater problem.”

As an Air Force Policeman Etno had few occasions to wear his battle gear. The camouflage fatigues, beret, combat boots and holstered .38 revolver made him feel like a real warrior, instead of merely a gate sentry. Now in the heat of the early afternoon he was striding with resolve through the back streets and alleys of Nibung Raya, the nightclub district. A stray dog that was slow to scurry out of his way got a kick that sent it off yelping.

Etno had considered going to a mosque and performing sholat before facing the Mobil Brigade man, but removing and re-lacing his boots took too much time. His wife was always urging him to become a more serious Muslim. The thought of his wife made Etno remember that he had a date that night with the Madurese girl who sold energy drinks in the Casablanca bar. The women from Madura Island were supposed to have superb internal muscle control. Somehow Etno had not yet had the opportunity to test this rumor. It would make a good story to tell his friends if it was true.

Outside the Indian theater was a small crowd of shabbily dressed older people waiting patiently to buy tickets for the first show of the day. Etno couldn’t understand why Pak Bolo was so adamant about controlling this place — the patrons were so poor, probably becak drivers and their wives. As he drew nearer, he saw a young, tough-looking man chatting with the movie-goers.

Allahu Akbar! So this was the Mobil Brigade man! It was Harip, the terror of the Etno’s secondary school. Etno hadn’t seen him for years, but he couldn’t forget the swaggering boy who’d pinched the ears of the younger children and delighted in making them cry.

Etno was too close to stop and ponder the situation. He approached Harip with a smile.

“Hello, brother. What’s the news?”

Harip’s resilience was enviable. He seemed startled for only an instant, then returned Etno’s smile.

“Yes, Etno, it’s been a long time. I think you are not here to watch the Hindu films. We were wondering who the old man would send. I must tell you that I am disappointed. I was expecting someone with a little more prestige.”

“If you know why I’m here, Harip, then you know I appreciate your protection of this theater up to now, and I am ready to take it off your hands.”

The theater-goers stirred and muttered. Something ugly was in the air.

Harip’s eyes narrowed. “Tell the old man to send someone with some credibility, not a boy.”

“Don’t forget that I am a Military Policeman.”

Harip laughed. “You are not a Military Policeman. You are merely a gate sentry. Compared to my standing as a Mobile Brigade Policeman, you are a flea.”

Etno tried to keep emotion from his voice.

“I am also part of Pak Bolo’s organization.”

“Yes, the famous gangster Pak Bolo. Well, let’s say that makes you a flea on the ass of a wily, old cat, a cat that depends on the tolerance of the Mobil Brigade.”

Etno rocked back on his heels. Did this errand boy for a Chinaman think he could insult Pak Bolo with impunity?

“I believe I am hearing some of the halus talk favored by the Batak.”

Now Harip was angry, really angry. Flecks of saliva flew from his mouth as he spoke. “We are getting somewhere at last, yes? The halus Javanese versus the barbaric, keras Batak. Well, this is Sumatra, this is Kota Kasar. We Batak allowed the Dutch to dump you Javanese here because you were so wretched and hungry we could only pity you.

“We Batak go back a hundred generations on this island. You outsiders have been skulking around for only two or three.”

“Yes, and the timing was fortunate, considering that the Batak abandoned cannibalism only two or three generations ago.”

Etno knew he had gone too far. He didn’t care. Both men’s hands moved towards their pistols, but Harip was in civilian clothes and his weapon was under his shirt — an awkward draw. Etno had only to pull his revolver from his holster. Etno smiled.

We Javanese will always prevail because we can hide our feelings.

But he wasn’t any nearer to resolving the theater problem.

Etno did his best thinking seated on his father’s old Jepara teak chair. He sat there staring through his wife and her two sisters, who sprawled cross-legged on an imitation Persian rug, watching a dubbed Mexican melodrama on television. Etno’s wife smiled at him. She was pleased to have him home at night.

How could he take control of the theater from a more powerful enemy? Strong-arm tactics weren’t appropriate; he wasn’t adept at such methods, and Harip was a born thug.

Perhaps he could turn the theater into an unprofitable venture for Harip. If the place were flooded with rats, attendance would go down. No, probably not. The movie-goers homes were already full of rats.

Etno glanced at his watch and noted with sadness that he had missed his date with the Madurese girl.

There was a rattling from the front gate. Etno’s wife rolled her eyes at him. “Tonight just send her away, Bang.”

“No, no, it’s all right,” Etno muttered.

He made up Kak Ani’s little parcel and walked outside.

“What’s the news, Kak?”

Kak Ani stared shrewdly at Etno through the gate bars. “You have the same expression your father had when he was troubled, Etno. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, nothing, Kak. What’s the news in town?”

“There was a fine wedding feast earlier today. You know the leper who always begs at the corner of Jalan Palawan? He married a girl who has the same affliction. Poor thing, she has no nose and only one ear. They had the feast in the field across from the water tower. The owner of a restaurant provided the food.”

Kak Ani laughed girlishly. “Actually, he provided the food as part of a bargain. All the lepers agreed not to beg within one hundred meters of his restaurant.”

Etno felt a delicate, tingling sensation just inside his forehead.

“Do you have a lot of leper friends, Kak?”

“Oh, hundreds. I know them all.”

“Do they like movies?”

Pak Bolo’s study was filled with the old man’s cronies, the handful of men who were at ease with him. Among others, the vice governor of Northern Sumatra, General Sirigar, and even the fabulously wealthy Sikh, Reginald Singh were there. Pak Bolo introduced Etno to them.

“Tell us how you persuaded Lee’s man to relinquish the theater, Etno.”

In the presence of such powerful men, Etno should have been tongue-tied, but now he felt a surge of delight. These men would remember his face and his words.

“The actual cost was very slight, only a few hundred thousand rupiahs. My contact with the unfortunate lepers spread the news that they were invited to view Hindu movies at no charge. With the aid of friends, I provided two buses from the air force base to round them up from their begging corners all over the city and I gave them each enough money for a ticket.

“Gentlemen, you should have seen the horror on the Mobil Brigade man’s face when this small army of ragged, nose-less people with rupiah notes clutched in their few remaining fingers descended on him and demanded admittance. He ran, and I don’t believe he stopped running until he reached his boss’ office at the Lee Garden Hotel.”

After the laughter faded, Pak Bolo put his hand on Etno’s shoulder.

“Yes, and we all know how fastidious the Chinese are. Lee probably had the man locked up and fumigated.

“As a reward for his initiative, I am giving the theater to Etno. All the proceeds will be his. And the hours involved will keep him busy at night and safe from the temptations of this wild city.”

Etno forced himself to grin. Now he saw the picture clearly. In order to rise in Pak Bolo’s organization he had to become a respectable family man. His wife would be happy.

But he might never discover the truth about the Madura Island girls.