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.