Tiger, Tiger. Philip Caveney

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      ‘This shave is costing me one dollar,’ he said. ‘If I were a Malay, I could get it for twenty-five cents.’

      And the barber threw back his head and laughed merrily, his dark eyes twinkling. Harry laughed along with him. No further explanation was necessary.

      The afternoon sun was still fierce. Bob Beresford felt the heat of it on his neck as he brought the Land Rover to an abrupt, squealing halt on the stretch of road that ran alongside Kampong Panjang. He clambered out of the vehicle, collected his rifle from the back seat, and slinging the weapon carelessly over his shoulder he headed into the village. The kampong was a jumble of rattan and corrugated iron dwellings, all of them supported three or four feet above the ground on a series of stout posts, a practical necessity in a land that swarmed with venomous snakes, scorpions, and centipedes. The village seemed to have been constructed with no particular sense of order, one building encroaching close upon the next, with just a well-trampled muddy walkway in between. As Bob approached, he was quickly spotted by groups of children who flocked around him excitedly, pointing to his gun, and jabbering in Malay. As soon as they divined that he had some purpose in coming here, they fell in behind him like a platoon of miniature troops. Bob could barely speak their language and could only gaze at them enquiringly and repeat over and over, ‘Penghulu?’ Somebody had told him that this was the Malay word for the village headman. Perhaps his pronunciation was bad, because it took some considerable time to make his wishes known. At last, with wild exclamations, the laughing children took the lead and drew him deeper and deeper into the village. Finally, they deposited him outside a dwelling that looked no grander than the others and the children began to shout and yell, until a little, wizened monkey of a man, dressed in a red sarong, emerged from the interior of the house and clambered down the stairs. He growled something at the children and their noise subsided abruptly. Then the penghulu smiled apologetically at Bob and lowered his head in a polite bow.

      ‘Good day, Tuan. Can I be a help?’ His English was surprisingly fluent. The children began to giggle. The penghulu gave a shout and stepped menacingly towards them, at which point the children scattered in every direction, leaving the two men to their own devices. The penghulu turned back and raised his eyes briefly heavenwards, an expression that said, ‘Ah, these children! What can a man do with them?’ Then he enquired politely, ‘Will the Tuan take some tea?’

      ‘Ah … no, thanks very much. But I could use some help. I came about the tiger …’

      The penghulu looked puzzled. Evidently, he had not come across the word before.

      ‘Harimau,’ prompted Bob, who had taken the trouble of finding out a few easy terms from some of his pupils.

      ‘Ah!’ The penghulu nodded gravely. He eyed Bob’s rifle curiously. ‘You want shoot him?’ he murmured.

      ‘If I can. Can you show me the place where he took the cow?’

      The penghulu smiled, nodded. He turned back to the house and shouted something in his native tongue. After a moment’s silence, the sound of a scolding woman’s voice emerged from within, a long stream of words that seemed to contain not one pause for breath. The penghulu grimaced, winked slyly at Bob, and then chuckled.

      ‘Women,’ he murmured. ‘Why do we marry them? Come!’ He led Bob away from the house, ignoring the barrage of invective that was still emerging from there. They could hear the woman’s complaining voice for some distance.

      Bob took out a packet of English cigarettes, offered one to the old man, who accepted it gratefully, and then put one between his own lips. He lit both cigarettes with his silver Ronson. The penghulu gazed at this admiringly and then strolled happily beside the Australian, puffing ostentatiously on his cigarette, aware that people in the surrounding houses were observing him. He was a curious-looking fellow. No more than five feet, three inches high, his legs were quite short in proportion to his body and rather bandy, emphasizing the apishness of his appearance. As well as the sarong, he was wearing a grubby white short-sleeved shirt and a pair of blue rubber flip-flops. His large, rather discoloured teeth were liberally dotted with bright gold fillings that tended to reflect the sunlight whenever he grinned. It was impossible to guess at his age. His tiny, excessively lined face suggested an octogenarian but he was as agile and wiry as a gibbon as he trotted along through the village.

      ‘Is it far away?’ enquired Bob.

      ‘Not far, Tuan. Si-Pudong take cow on road, out by kampong. Then he carry ’way. No man know where to. Herd-boy very frighted, but Si-Pudong not touch him. He read words on boy here!’ The penghulu tapped his own forehead and smiled. ‘So, Si-Pudong ’fraid to eat boy. Take cow ’stead.’

      Bob did not understand this at all and resolved to ask somebody else to explain it to him in the near future. The two of them moved out of the outskirts of the village and onto the road. Several children ventured to follow them, but the penghulu shouted for them to stay put, which they did, rather reluctantly, staring glumly after the two men as they strode away.

      They walked for some distance in silence, glancing occasionally into the thick jungle that flanked the road. It was oppressively hot at the moment, and Bob felt the tickle of sweat as it ran down his neck, beneath his khaki shirt. After a surprisingly short distance, the penghulu announced, ‘Cow killed here!’ He pointed to some scrape-marks in the hard dirt surface of the road and, peering closer, Bob could see some patches of dried blood. Now the penghulu pointed to the right, where behind a screen of ferns and scrub, the ground declined sharply into a monsoon ditch. ‘Ha – Si-Pudong, he come up out of ditch, attack from behind,’ explained the penghulu. Bob glanced at him suspiciously. He had the distinct impression that the old man had been about to say harimau, the normal Malay word for tiger, but he had stopped himself, almost as though he was afraid to say it. Just exactly what Si-Pudong meant, he would have to check up later. Bob moved over to the ditch and slid down into it, closely followed by the penghulu. The ground was comparatively moist here, and after some searching about they found a series of pugmarks.

      ‘Ai!’ exclaimed the penghulu, pointing. ‘There were two of them! See, Tuan.’ He indicated a pair of large, squarish prints. ‘Man-cat stand here. Go up bank to kill.’ Now he pointed out some smaller tracks, a little distance back. ‘His woman wait here, while he do all work.’ He thought to himself for a moment, then added, ‘Just like my wife.’

      Bob smiled, scratched his head. He certainly hadn’t expected two tigers. He moved along the ditch a little way until he reached the place where the cow had been dropped down the bank. The grass was visibly crushed and flattened and there was a long deep furrow, presumably where one of the creature’s horns had gouged deep into the soil. There was a little dried blood matted into some tufts of grass, and from here a distinct trail led off through the undergrowth. Bob gazed after it for a moment, then turned to the penghulu and indicated that he intended to follow. The old man looked far from eager, so Bob took out his cigarettes and lighter, handed them to the penghulu and suggested that he should wait up on the road. With a grateful nod, the penghulu scrambled up over the bank and Bob set off into the jungle.

      It was as though somebody had switched off the sun.

      The instant he passed into the shadow of the trees, it seemed that the heat had simply evaporated, and he was immersed in a chilly world of green-dappled mystery. As he moved further onwards, the trees high above his head formed a thick dark canopy through which the rays of sunlight could only occasionally stab. But the trail he was following was easy enough to find. The drag marks led through the midst of lush ferns and tangled vines, around the gnarled roots of balau trees, along winding cattle trails, and deep through the heart of seemingly СКАЧАТЬ