Plakotham

Plakotham

By Bakdi Soemanto

"Mas, yesterday evening, Rina, Sita, Tutty, Bu Binny, Bu Alex
Bu Eddy and I visited Bu Bazar, not for our monthly chat but to
see her son, Plakotham, who the day before had cut off his finger
with a kitchen knife usually used by his mother for peeling red
onions, slicing meat or chopping spinach," wrote my wife in the
letter I received yesterday in my office. "The wound is not deep
but Bu Binny is very worried because Plakotham is just silent,
lying in bed, blinking," she continued.

I was struck by the first sentences of the letter. Imagine,
Plakotham -- a friendly, intelligent, well-read and cheerful
young man. How could it be? Then I became concerned that perhaps
Plakotham's heart was broken because, as he had said himself in a
letter some months ago, Azizah, his sweet long-haired girlfriend,
had decided to end their relationship. If this was right, why had
he chopped off his little finger to try to kill himself? This was
certainly strange. Surely Plakotham could have committed hara-
kiri, as a Japanese would do, by tearing open his stomach with a
sacred dagger or jumping from Code Bridge, but instead he just
chopped off his little finger.

I stared out my office window. Snow was falling heavily,
changing the surface of the earth rapidly to white. Some people
walked by hurriedly, wearing thick clothes and hats. The trees
whose bare limbs seemed naked ... Plakotham's face caught among
the branches when I started thinking of Rina and Bu Binny.

"According to Bu Bazar, Plakotham hasn't eaten anything for a
week. At first he didn't want to eat meat because the meat was
crying out as it was boiled. Soon after that he didn't want to
eat vegetables either. We were all very worried," continued my
wife.

I remembered in a letter some months ago, Plakotham had also
mentioned that he was no longer eating meat. Once he was invited
by Pak Toffan and Pak Wirono to eat in a small satay food stall.
But as soon as he arrived at the restaurant's entrance he ran
home. The roasting chicken had shouted, accusing Plakotham of
being a wild, greedy and heartless creature. That night Plakotham
dreamed that one million chickens, armed with exocet missiles and
kitchen knives with nuclear tips, had invaded his home.

And not only that. Every night the telephone would ring; when
he answered, chickens threatened they were going to fill each
grain of rice Plakotham was about to eat with explosives. "I was
scared, Sully," he wrote. Of course when I read the letter I
laughed loudly. I knew Plakotham very well. He had an
extraordinary imagination.

Before I departed for the United States, Plakotham used to
invite me out for a walk every Saturday evening. While we were
eating peanuts and walking along the side of the road, Plakotham
would let his imagination run wild. Once he told me that if
Azizah didn't accept his love, all would not be hopeless.

"I will change into a thread," he said.

"And then?" I asked.

"I will let myself be used to sew her blouse," he continued.
Another time he said it would be better if he were lipstick that
would always be in contact with Azizah's lips. Then new ideas
came. He wanted to become deodorant which would always be brushed
on Azizah's underarms. Once it occurred to him that he wanted to
become a bra. And the last idea before I left: He wanted to
become a sausage.

"A sausage?" I asked, trying to contain my laughter.

"Yeaaah, you know, Azizah is crazy about sausage. Imagine! How
wonderful it would be when my body is held by Azizah's beautiful
fingers; then I will touch her lips; then I'll be chewed,
swallowed and digested by her digestive system; then I will be
part of her blood. And when I enter into her heart, I'll know the
secret of her dreams. And if she becomes interested in other men,
and I'm jealous, I'll threaten to stop her heart." We both roared
with laughter.

Therefore the news from my wife confused me.

"Plakotham has also started to hate his father, Mas,"
continued my wife in her letter. "Mas, remember, Plakotham's
father is a wealthy businessman and every day he eats with other
very wealthy businessmen in smart restaurants. According to
Plakotham, what his father does is only a manifestation of fake
high culture. People go and sit around a formally set table
complete with candles, and the people are dressed up but they eat
corpses," wrote my wife. In her letter, she also mentioned that
Plakotham often fought with his father over the issue.

"One day," my wife wrote, "Plakotham quarreled severely with
Azizah because he knew she was not only fond of sausage but also
saren, the blood of chicken cooked into a solid form. Plakotham
wanted Azizah to stop eating it," continued my wife.

I was more and more confused. How was it possible that such a
generous young man could become so horrible. I couldn't imagine
him suddenly leaving his house and pointing out people from the
neighborhood as the eaters of corpses. Plakotham would be
reported to the police because, despite the truth of what he
said, he would be considered to be insulting human dignity. His
mother would be very sad because, after Plakotham's older brother
had failed in school and become a drunkard, Plakotham had been
her only hope.

I didn't quite understand but I felt a little guilty. I
remembered that before I left I had promised to go on a stroll
with him on an evening of a full moon. I promised that I would
reveal the secret of how I got my beautiful wife. Recently,
Plakotham had been asking me how I, who am old, ugly and a
nobody, could have such a beautiful wife. But these plans had
never been realized because I had been so busy.

While I was thinking about this something else occurred to me.
Perhaps Plakotham was possessed by evil spirits who had dwelt in
the corner of his home. According to Linus, a poet and a friend
who is also expert at exorcising Satan, evil spirits should be
driven away to Saturn or Mars where they cannot bother human
beings. Possibly, the evil spirits had started bothering
Plakotham because there hadn't been time to perform the ceremony.

I looked at the glass window again. I touched it lightly and
imagined my wife's lips, cool and fresh. I kissed my fingers and
imagined my wife closing her beautiful eyes like Sleeping Beauty.

"According to Bu Bazar," wrote my wife, "Plakotham not only
hears the sliced chicken crying out but also the fruits and
vegetables screaming as they are chopped, boiled and cooked. Even
the water laments horribly as it boils. That is why Plakotham
does not want to eat anything."

I remembered, once when Plakotham and I had taken a walk he
mused that maybe the fundamental problem of life lies with living
itself. Eventually, in order to live, he said that night, "we
have to eat!" This is the starting point in the destruction of
life. Not only that. Humanity wants to realize its fantasies,
after survival is achieved comes the further development of
oneself. I was struck by this memory. Perhaps Plakotham was not
simply possessed by evil spirits. There was something more
interesting that had to be studied further.

When I arrived home I was haunted by the face of Plakotham. My
ears were full of laughter like the sound of rain. His face and
his laughter didn't leave me until late into the night. I knew
that if I was not successful in overcoming the feeling then my
concentration would be ruined. It was then that I decided to make
an international phone call. I knew it would be very expensive
but I was also aware that unfinished work could be much more
costly. With my heart pounding, I asked the operator to connect
me to Plakotham's phone in my homeland. I waited a little while
because such an international call can take a long time and
sometimes fails completely.

Bu Bazar was very surprised to hear my voice.

"Pak Sully, hi!" her voice was distant but so clear. I started
asking about Plakotham and Bu Bazar began to explain emotionally.
When I demanded that she let me speak with Plakotham, Bu Bazar's
voice stopped and then she started crying. I began to sense that
something was wrong. The truth was that Plakotham had died two
days earlier, five days after my wife had written me.

"All day long my son wouldn't eat anything," sobbed Bu Bazar.
"He said, 'Already I have been too greedy. To survive I have had
to steal life from other creatures and vegetables.' According to
Plakotham, if we have to eat to survive he would eat his own
flesh and not the flesh of other things. And since it was
impossible to eat his own flesh. ..." Bu Bazar voice disappeared
and the connection was cut. I was shocked.

I lit my cigarette and sat beside my soundly sleeping son.
Maybe Plakotham had not simply been possessed by evil spirits but
also that he had been an alternative to the hatred that comes
from stealing and the desire to steal. An alternative in the
angry world of our time. Or maybe Plakotham was only a kind of
black humor, not welcome in the feast of goat and chickens ...

Glossary:

Bu, Ibu: Term of respect for elderly female

Pak, Bapak: Term of respect for elderly male

Mas: Term of respect for adult male

The writer teaches in the School of Letters at Gadjah Mada
University in Yogyakarta.