Hardwood Tree

By Agus Vrisaba

By his wide and prominent forehead one could tell that the young man named Panut had to be intelligent. And whatever shaped mouth he had, it, too, supported the fluency and quick-wittedness of his speech. According to friends, his stocky body showed just how stubborn and pigheaded he could be when saying something. Panut's particular joy was challenging anybody and anything. All these descriptions proved to be too right only after I had known Panut for quite a while. My acquaintance with him happened by coincidence. At that time I made a living selling cigarettes in front of a movie theater, and Panut would often come to buy some cigarettes. One evening he forgot to bring cash with him, and I allowed him credit. He was a chain smoker. Panut believed that smoking made one think better. He was still a student at the time.

Every time he bought a packet of cigarettes, he'd open it immediately and borrow my lighter to light up a stick. After blowing out the smoke from inhaling a couple of times, he'd then begin to speak. He told me of many things. To enable him to continue his studies, his father was forced to sell his paddy- fields in the village. In fact, Panut said, the paddies were the family's inheritance. But it would not be too long before he obtained his degree in law and became a lawyer. When his money had piled up he would buy a larger paddy field for his father.

Then, I did not meet Panut for a long time, because I had stopped selling cigarettes and began working in a repair shop for motorcycles. I thought he had become a lawyer for sure. But one day Panut came to the shop where I was working. His old motorbike was in bad need of repair. Usually he made repairs himself. But this time it was over his head.

"Have you opened a law practice yet?" I asked.

"I dropped out. I am now a paper merchant. Becoming a lawyer was only a means to look for money. Rather than slogging through school, I thought I'd take a short cut. And a friend was willing to start me off with some capital."

He talked fluently about the different kinds of paper and which ones were marketable. He stated that he didn't want to do things halfway. If one went into business then one had to do it in a big way. So because of this, he badly needed a car and a truck.

"If you want people to trust you, you have to wear a tie and drive your own car. I've contacted all the big dealers. And many stationery stores have placed orders."

But he complained that the friend who gave him the start-up capital refused to provide him with a car and truck, even though they had both agreed to split the profits between them. I saw the conviction in him and really believed that he would make it. I said that I, too, would like to work with him when he had succeeded.

"Never fear. You can drive, can't you? I'll make you my driver. But you have to be clean and dress neatly."

Panut promised to contact me as soon as he was successful. I was really hopeful. The work at the repair shop was hard and the payment was barely enough to provide for a wife and two children. I also had to consider what to do when my two children eventually began schooling. I waited and waited, filled with fearful hope, but Panut never contacted me. Bored of waiting, I finally forgot about him. I continued to wrestle with the oil in that motorcycle repair shop. My eldest was now in kindergarten and my wife was forced to make little cakes at home and place them in several warung around the area. If not, there was no way we could afford our child's school uniform and shoes.

One day after work, my wife asked me to fetch her money at one of the warung where she left her cakes. The warung was very far from home. My wife had to draw me a map first before I took off. I never dreamed I would meet Panut at that warung. All the while I had thought that by then he would already be wearing a tie and driving a car, never giving me, a small-time laborer, any thought. But there he was at the warung, wearing a sarong and a tired, patched shirt.

"This is my wife," he said, pointing to the pregnant-looking woman selling the warung's wares to her customers. "We've only been married half a year."

"So this is your warung?"

"My wife's warung. I'm living off my in-laws here."

"What do you do now?"

"For the time being I'm unemployed. I'm taking a course in television, video and electronic repair work."

"You're planning to open a TV repair shop?"

"No. I'm going to buy up any broken television set, also any video recorder and other electronic ware. I'll repair them and then sell them in the villages. For very cheap, but at a profit. I'm sure they'll sell like the banana cakes your wife has been making."

His wife, whom I learned was named Misnah, handed me the money from the sale of my wife's cakes.

"We can work together. You find me someone who can give us the capital. We'll split the profits: half for that person, and the other half we'll divide between the two of us. My course finishes in a week's time. At the moment, people in the villages are crazy about TV and videos. Later on when everyone in the village owns a video recorder, my wife and yours can open up a videotape rental."

I was quite taken with this idea of his. But where on earth was I to look for a person who was willing to provide us with capital? I thought about Panut's interesting proposition, but not too seriously.

About two weeks later, Panut unexpectedly dropped by at my place.

"How did you get hold of my address?"

"Well, your wife goes to my wife's warung everyday, doesn't she?"

He asked whether I had found someone willing to give, or to lend, us some money. When I answered with a shake of my head, he asked if the land that I stayed on had a certificate. I tried to make a guess as to what direction his question was heading towards, and so answered him hesitantly.

"It's like this: my in-laws are so stingy you wouldn't believe it. I have tried to convince them to lend me the papers of their land holding, but they stubbornly refuse. We need those papers to borrow money from the bank."

"The land I'm staying on also belongs to my parents-in-law," I said. "And I'm pretty sure that they, too, will refuse to lend me the papers."

"It stinks that we never have any capital, when in fact when what we have planned succeeds, we can buy both our sets of in- laws bigger plots of land each. Yes, any plan always needs start- up capital. Well then, I'll go on trying to look for some money. So should you. If I obtain some, I'll contact you. If you obtain the money, get in touch with me immediately."

He had called the plan our plan: his plan and my plan. The project was our project. In fact I had never said that I would join him in the plan and the project. But deep in my heart I was happy that he had counted me in.

I never actively sought out the money that was needed. Even though I had been roped into the plan and the project, I still felt that I was on the outside. I didn't really feel that I was involved.

After a few months had gone by I became suspicious. What if Panut had already obtained some money and forgot to get in touch with me, or didn't do so deliberately. But I immediately felt ashamed of my self. Why on earth should I feel so suspicious? Didn't I already feel that I was not involved in the plan and the project? Why should I feel hurt if I wasn't in on it if the plan and project was successful?

I had forgotten all about Panut's plan and project, and whether he had succeeded or not, when a former friend from college came and had his motorbike repaired at the shop where I worked. At first the friend didn't recognize me, maybe because I was all covered in oil. But he suddenly recalled who I was and hugged me hard not even caring that his nice clean clothes would get smeared with oil. Apparently he was very moved to see me.

"You, who went to university, you're now only a repair laborer?" he asked me repeatedly with disbelief in his voice.

"And what's wrong with that? My family have always been poor. To fund my education, even though I eventually never did graduate, they had to sacrifice a lot of things."

Actually, my friend looked quite prosperous.

"Why don't you try your hand at something else. If needed, I'll lend you the capital."

Maybe it was just a throwaway line for him, but to me it was like a bolt of electricity that suddenly lit up a lightbulb in me. I told him all about Panut's idea. Of course I said that it was my idea, and never even once mentioned Panut's name.

"If it's only half a million that you need, OK, come over to my house. I'll lend you the amount at no interest."

Maybe he felt he was now compelled to say that simply because of his previous throwaway comment. But what did I care. After finishing work, without even stopping by at home, I went to seek out Panut. At the warung his wife said that Panut wasn't home. My suspicions came flooding back. What if Panut had already been successful and had left me high and dry?

I had been waiting at his wife's warung for quite a while before Panut finally came home. I was relieved that he was not wearing a tie, nor was he driving a car. He now rode a bicycle, after not being able to pay for fuel for his motorcycle. I told him quickly about the money promised by my friend. He didn't show much interest while listening. In fact he kept quiet for long moments.

"We'll just ditch the electronics plan," he said.

"Why on earth?"

"I've been looking into the wild randu tree. Did you know that the wood of the randu is very good for construction? Once the outer layer is shaved off you find the very hard center part of the wood."

"What do you mean?"

"With the capital that you'll be getting, we can buy equipment to fell wild randu and a saw."

"What for?"

"We can go from village to village seeking out wild randu, and we'll buy them all up. We can then turn them into construction material and sell them. I've already calculated the big profits we'll be making. To begin with, we'll buy up all the randu trees growing in the center of the cemetery in this village."

I imagined the sheer terror of it. The trees were big and very tall. Many people considered the trees sacred and lurking with evil spirits, much like the kepuh for the Balinese. In fact, the randu were considered as sacred as the banyan.

"Well?" Panut asked with impatience in his voice. I remained silent, and, without a word of farewell, I turned back home. His was a crazy idea. And it was very apparent that Panut had become crazy because ideas kept on bubbling up in his being like water in a spring. I didn't care to go mad.

Translated by Debra H. Yatim

Born on April 28, 1939, in Klaten, Central Java under the name Kho Ping Hwie, Agus Vrisaba was a very productive writer right up until his death on Feb. 18, 1992. His short story Randu Alas appeared in Kado Istimewa: Cerpen Pilihan Kompas 1991, and is printed here by courtesy of the Kompas daily.