He told the shop owner about his library of books. “Really, I have quite a lot. Three thousand. I want to sell them all”—and just then the seed of a plan blossomed in his brilliant brain, and he continued—“to raise money for a guerilla war.”
Ultimately, those books did fund his first series of subversive actions. He began to print seditious leaflets agitating for political upheaval, and these began to attract people to the movement. All these years later, the merit of those books has mostly been forgotten, because hardly anyone remembers Peter Pan himself. Only the Princess remembers—she also remembers how, once all that was left of the money from selling those books was a fond memory no better than a fairy tale, Peter Pan was able to keep the movement alive.
It turned out Peter Pan—as even his friends called him then—in fact had a truly poetic soul, since only a poet would love flowers as much as he did. He planted the entire backyard of the rented house they used as their movement headquarters with flowers. He watered them every morning and afternoon with the tenderness of a god. Their blooms flourished and after he plucked them, he would gather them into bouquets, which he sold on the campus boulevard, and there was no shortage of customers who were touched by their beauty. That was how he helped fund the printing of his political leaflets and flyers. But then his friends started running out of money, because once their parents heard they had joined Peter Pan in planning a guerilla war they stopped sending them any, and he was forced to abandon his flower garden and plant the yard with cassava, yams, corn, and other fruits and vegetables so they had something to eat.
But, truly, he wasn’t the kind of person to run out of ideas. The Princess remembers Peter Pan as someone who could attract larger-than-life figures to help with fundraising, like the billiard champion who chose to join his movement, leaving his dazzling professional career behind and going from one pool hall to another, betting on games. Nine against one, he always won, and he supplied lots of cash, which was spent on printing all those leaflets and posters for the struggle.
That was how Peter Pan got by, until once upon a time it came to pass that suddenly, all at once, almost every student, laborer, merchant, office worker, and even civil servant took to the streets. They banded together in the shared belief that the dictator had become insupportable and could no longer be allowed to stay in office. His smile, which was always flashing on television and was even printed on their paper currency, had grown quite galling. The days were spent demonstrating, again and again, every day with the same fervor and the same demand: Step down, Mr. President, before we burn you alive in the fire of revolution! Those were the most subversive days of the dictator’s entire rule, which was already in its death throes.
At the same exact time, Peter Pan met his most tragic fate. After he learned he was public enemy number one, sought by the dictator’s bloody hands, he went from one hideout to the next, until it came to pass that three horrific people arrested him at the Princess’s house, right before his beloved’s eyes. Even though he was now powerless, he was still an impressive figure: his eyes still shone, and he still sang hymns of struggle, even as they apprehended him. He was gagged, his face was covered with a black hood, and he was dragged away from the Princess, who could do nothing but silently howl. That was the last time she ever saw her man.
What befell him after that, not many—maybe nobody except the dictator—ever knew. But even when the dictator was finally overthrown—by the street protests, by the riots that swept through the cities after thousands of factory workers had been laid off, and by the war between soldiers and students, which flooded the television sets and newspapers with blood—we didn’t find Peter Pan. We never had so much as a whiff of his rotting corpse. It was as if Peter Pan had disappeared, and so he became a mythical figure among us, who were left helpless.
And that was how, almost two years after the fall of that pathetic dictator, on the tenth of April, the date that had been promised, the Princess carried out the wedding they had planned. Peter Pan was represented by a cluster of poems—all that was left of him. I myself attended their wedding and witnessed the Princess weeping, just as all of the guests were weeping.
Meanwhile, even though he was overthrown two years ago, the dictator keeps smiling. He is still healthy, still rich, still revolting, and most infuriating of all he still rules even though he no longer occupies the presidential office. Peter Pan, the Princess’s beloved, fought so hard to bring him down, but it’s starting to seem like it was all for nothing—he paid far too great a cost for far too little change. That is why it feels right for the Princess, and for all of us, to weep. We have appointed a new leader, but he can never make the dictator pay for all the evil he has done, and what’s worse he cannot return Peter Pan to us. Plus that accursed smile is still printed on our bills.
Thanks to all of this, not long after her peculiar wedding reception, the Princess said to us, in an effort to cheer herself up, “It will be forever impossible to keep us from reading our novels and comic books—even though that Great Criminal, who is vile, vicious, dirty, and stinks of hell, is nearly impossible to defeat and always manages to cheat death.”
And I don’t think I need to spell out to whom she was referring.
MAKING AN ELEPHANT HAPPY
Because it was very hot that day—a regular day in this tropical country—the Elephant paid a visit to a house.
He had heard from somebody, or maybe from other elephants and animals, that human beings have small cooling storage rooms called refrigerators. They store everything, especially food, in refrigerators. “How wonderful would it be if I could get myself inside a refrigerator,” thought the Elephant.
The Elephant knocked on the door and two young children welcomed him. There were no parents or caretakers around, and for a moment the Elephant felt a little unsure whether he could communicate with the youngsters. However, they seemed to be excited to see him.
“Hi, Elephant. What can we do for you?” asked the little girl, the younger of the two children.
“I’m very hot. I’d like to cool myself in the refrigerator,” said the Elephant shyly.
The two children looked at each other. Then the boy nodded and said, “I sometimes put my head or arm inside the refrigerator. It’s very refreshing. What’s the harm in trying to do the same for the Elephant, even for just a moment.”
The girl agreed, “That’s fine with me.”
The children led the Elephant inside the house and tried to fit him into the refrigerator. The refrigerator itself was quite full. There were several eggs sitting on a small rack, wedged among packets of ready-made sauce. On the top shelf, a bag of raw chicken rubbed itself up against piles of sausages. On the middle shelf were bananas and apple pieces, as well as a leftover slice of birthday cake from their next-door neighbor (there were bite marks on the cake). Plus a box of grapes.
On the bottom shelf, there were vegetables. And in the door shelf were rows of drinks: bottles of lemonade, boxes of fruit juice, and cans of soda.
The children started to take everything out of the refrigerator, hoping to make room for the Elephant. They did their best, but only the tip of the Elephant’s trunk could fit inside. Their next step was to remove all the shelves until the refrigerator was entirely empty. This done, they pushed the Elephant from behind, trying to squeeze him into the appliance. The Elephant coiled his trunk, but still, no matter how hard they shoved, only a little bit of his head would fit.
“The Elephant’s too big,” said the boy desperately. He was the type of boy who was certain of his ability to do anything he wanted, yet this time he had to face reality: this task was beyond him.
The girl was quiet for a moment and then came up with an idea:
“Perhaps we should cut him up into little pieces so we can put his entire body into the refrigerator.”
The girl probably remembered how her mother had once cut a papaya into chunks to fit in a small bowl.
We should try that, thought the boy. Both child
ren began to busy themselves cutting up the Elephant. First they tore off and sliced up his four legs, then his tail, then his head, before moving on to his wide ears and long trunk. The Elephant’s belly was still too big to fit inside the refrigerator, so they cut that up into twenty smaller chunks. To be honest, it was rather exhausting work for two young children.
But it all paid off when they finally managed to fit chunks of the Elephant’s body inside the refrigerator. First, they laid down two of his ears inside the refrigerator, then several bits of the trunk. They placed his tusks side by side where bottles usually stood in a row. They cut the Elephant’s head into eight pieces, and the girl arranged them in a neat pile inside the refrigerator.
Soon the refrigerator was chock-full of the Elephant’s cut-up body. Not all the pieces made it inside, though. Much of him was still strewn across the floor of the house.
“There’s no space left,” said the girl.
The boy nodded. It was time for them to give up. The Elephant’s body was too big for their refrigerator.
They spent the next few minutes in silence, staring at the chunks of Elephant inside the refrigerator and on the floor. Then the girl realized something.
“I think we’ve killed the Elephant.” Her words were imbued with a kind of sadness.
“That’s true,” said the boy. “But at least we’ve succeeded in getting some parts of his body inside the refrigerator. That must make him happy.”
“Yes, he must be happy. Or, at least, parts of him are happy.”
The girl no longer felt sad.
More than that, the two young children will always remember that day as the happiest in their lives, because they had succeeded in making the Elephant happy. At least, they made parts of him happy.
“I think making him happy is the most important thing of all,” said the boy. “There’s no reason for him to live if he’s not happy.”
The girl nodded in agreement, smiling joyfully.
NIGHT WATCHMAN
The thunderstorm stops just before midnight. We see two dazed feral dogs approaching the lantern light at the edge of the guard hut, but as soon as they see us they hurry off, crashing through a thicket of weeds. Wild animals are coming down from the mountain, I think, wild animals and ghosts. A moment later, another powerful gust of wind whirls above us, making the lantern swing and spin about. Its light suddenly flickers and then goes out. We hear something go flying through the darkness, maybe the trunk of a banana tree that has been uprooted and tossed about by the infernal wind.
In the darkness, not one of us moves, hoping that the dying storm won’t drag the guard hut away with it. We are still sitting in its four corners, as we were before the storm, all facing the cards scattered across the floorboards, which we haven’t touched since we were all paralyzed by a sudden deadly dreariness. Booms of thunder still echo, as if they are being hurled down from the mountaintops—you can hear them come rolling in before they slam into the village. Just as I am thinking, The rickety village meeting hall must have surely been knocked down by now, something runs by us. Maybe it’s another pair of wild dogs, because then we hear them, or other members of the pack, howling in the foothills. There’s a creaking groan, like a raft splitting apart—it’s as if the tree branches are being wrenched and twisted from their trunks. The cold air makes us shiver.
Will the bajang come out on a wretched night like this? My wife, who is five months pregnant, had claimed she had seen it at dawn—her screams had woken me up, and she’d refused to leave the house at night alone ever since. She usually woke before daybreak, going to gather kindling in the old woodshed and take water from the standpipe. In the early morning my wife would be busy, alone out back behind the house and, as the water boiled on the stove, she would wash the dishes and the clothes. But ever since she had seen that bajang, she wouldn’t do it unless I went with her. But when morning comes I will not be with her, I think in a sort of bizarre prediction. And maybe the bajang has already gotten into the house.
The instant the wind stops, silence descends. The thick darkness makes me feel like I am being buried alive, and I wonder, Where are the sounds of the night creatures? I wish those wild dogs would appear again, just to reassure me that something is still alive out there beyond the guard hut. But minutes pass and there are no wild dogs. They don’t usually stray as far as the village—pigs and monkeys do, but not wild dogs. An owl hoots, at least that was what I think I hear, but then the sound vanishes. The world is silent once again, sleeping as soundly as a corpse. I wiggle my fingers to make sure I’m still alive.
I feel like I can hear the silence itself. It strikes me as quite odd, but it’s true, I can hear it—an empty sound, unlike anything I’ve ever heard. For the umpteenth time, I think about death. Ghosts come out of their graves on nights like this.
The silence is broken by the strike of a match, and near me I see someone lighting a cigarette, hand-rolled with a sugar palm leaf. It’s Karmin. I see his ruddy face behind the flame, his somber eyes, but he disappears as soon as he puts out the match. All that’s left is the glowing orange tip of his cigarette, floating in a sea of pitch-black darkness. The ember moves, descending from the hut platform, and as he takes a drag the ember flares—his face flickers into view, then quickly fades away. A few moments later, a slackening wind blows, and the lantern is relit. A row of banana and yam trees dance before us, their shadows flying like the fingers of a mountain demon. Karmin, who had relit the lantern, is still standing, wrapping his sarong around himself. One hand, with the cigarette squeezed between its fingers, lifts up the fabric’s hem while the other clutches a flashlight. After standing there for a moment, transfixed, he tosses his cigarette butt and grabs a small gong.
“I’m going to make the rounds,” he says.
He disappears to the west. All we can see is the occasional beam of his flashlight and we hear the intermittent bang of the gong, struck to let us know where he is. Someone has to make the rounds, to ensure the ghosts don’t prey upon the village. Karmin must be walking along the uncultivated land that stretches out beside a small stream that encircles our village and feeds into the river. After rainstorms, the stream always overflows, spilling snails, frogs, and clumps of moss. Karmin’s gong is still audible but it sounds strange coming from so far away. It seems as if he’s no longer in the village. The sound is growing fainter and fainter, getting farther away. He must be making the full loop, so he’ll reappear from the east in about a half an hour.
I see the unease in my two friends’ faces. One of them, Miso, gets down and inspects the kettle atop the dead stove under the security hut. The storm hasn’t knocked it over. There’s coffee inside, and he pours it into a tin cup. He offers it to us with a tense expression, but we shake our heads. I should drink some coffee too, I think, but I don’t budge. Miso sits near the lantern, looking out after Karmin, clutching his tin cup and occasionally sipping his coffee. I want to talk to him, but it somehow feels inappropriate, as if I were at a ceremony for the dead where people are forbidden to speak.
We can still hear Karmin’s gong, growing fainter and ever farther away, but even this grows unsettling, because somehow the sound seems to be rising, coming from higher and higher up in the air. I try to convince myself it isn’t the sound of Karmin’s gong after all—maybe it’s the beating of a kestrel’s wings. But if that was so, then we should have also heard Karmin striking his gong. He should have arrived at the farthest point by now or perhaps be crossing the small bridge at the edge of the mangrove thicket, meaning he will soon reappear and the next man will take his turn doing rounds. In the silence, I grow aware of the gulping thumps in my chest and Miso occasionally sipping his coffee.
He doesn’t seem to be enjoying it. I can see his hand shake as he places the tin cup on the wooden railing. Then he stands and goes to urinate behind a banana tree. The wind blows again, sluggish and wet. The lantern swings and the shadows of the banana trees seemed to lunge at Miso, ready to pounce. He hurries ba
ck, still tying the drawstring of his shorts, and sits on the edge of the security hut platform, looking off in the direction Karmin has gone. It’s already been half an hour. Karmin’s never coming back, I think. Miso turns his head and looks out towards the east. There is no lantern light, no sound of a gong. A light drizzle is starting to fall.
I think about my wife again. Our first child is inside her stomach, and I’m worried the bajang will come to steal it on a night like this. Someone has to make the rounds to ensure that none of the houses in the village are attacked by evil spirits, I mutter. Miso looks at me and then back to the east. We are both waiting for Karmin, hoping he will return with the good news that the village hasn’t come to any harm. But Karmin doesn’t appear, and my wife is home alone with no one to watch over her. She has to lock the house up tight.
My wife said the bajang looked like a weasel but meowed like a cat. Ghosts like this often visit pregnant women, snatching the babies from out of their wombs or driving them insane. I went all around the village looking for a strip of black silk and I tied it around my wife’s wrist as protection against the creature, but I’m still worried about her. I saw in her eyes that she didn’t want me to go keep watch, even though I always take my turn on Monday nights. When the night begins to grow cold, with a thick fog engulfing the tips of the coconut trees, I should be curled up with her in bed. Now that her stomach has grown quite large, my wife sleeps on her back, and I can’t wrap myself around her in a tight embrace. But she still lets me hold her hand, and we sleep soundly.
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