Sanyo

By Idrus

Beneath the radio loudspeaker that had been rigged up in the village square sat Kadir, a fried-peanut vendor, whose basket was full of hot peanuts but whose pockets were empty. Over his head an oil-lamp flickered, like a beacon far out to sea. The air that night was so hot it was difficult to breathe. There were no takers for his peanuts; the ice-cream man was drawing the potential buyers instead.

Kadir had been sitting there, like some sort of watchman, for the past two hours, itching for someone to talk to. But it was the loudspeaker that blared at him, calling out for people to work as sanyo. Kadir had no idea what was being said. It was like the radio speaker was a foreigner, a squat, yellow-skinned, bloodthirsty up-country tribesman from somewhere outside of Java whose language he could not understand.

Only with great effort did he manage to get his tongue round a few of the words that were spoken. "Sanyo, sanyo ..." he repeated. What on earth did sanyo mean? San meant "three" in Japanese, didn't it?

"What's the use anyway," he said finally after considering the matter. "There's no sense brooding just because no one's buying. To hell with sanyo, whatever it is. I'm willing to bet that's the reason why business is so bad."

A popsickle vendor, with tattered trousers and a wide-brimmed peasant's hat on his head, came up to him. The man was shirtless, and his body appeared to be half light and half dark.

Kadir looked the man over. "That guy's popsickles are going to taste even better once his customers get a good look at him," he thought cynically.

Because the popsickle man was no mind reader, he wasn't to know what might be running through Kadir's head, and smiled at Kadir. "I'd like some peanuts, two cents' worth," he said to him.

"You can't get anything for two cents, not nowadays," Kadir answered, contemptuously. "And I'll wager you that sanyo is the reason why."

"Be a sport," the vendor begged. "Just a few, anything to dull the hunger. Popsickles are all I've had to eat."

Kadir began to feel sorry for the man. He rifled through his peanuts, found a few small ones, and handed them over. In return the popsickle man gave Kadir two filthy banknotes.

The man popped the nuts into his maw, one at a time. "What's with all these empty ones?" he remarked with irritation.

"What do you mean, 'all these empty ones'?" Kadir retorted. "I only gave you four."

"Where are you from?" the popsickle man then asked.

"From Bogor. I get back there about once a month. I'm a kumico, a headman. The Japanese appointed me."

This brought Kadir's interlocutor up short. He was scared to death of the kumico in his neighborhood and always played it safe by giving his kumico a free popsickle every day. He feared that if he didn't he'd be docked his daily ration of rice.

He now spoke in a soft, respectful tone: "Then who takes your place when you're in Jakarta, Mr. Kumico, sir, if you don't mind my asking?"

Kadir colored to hear himself addressed so formally. "My son, Binu," he replied with pride. "He's just finished school. He's the one with the brains in the family. Me, I can't even read or write. It's when I hear that cigarettes are being distributed in Bogor that I go back, not otherwise. Not to flog them at black market rates, mind you. You won't catch me selling them under the counter."

"Mr. Kumico, sir, you don't suppose that I could become a kumico too, do you?"

Kadir scrunched up his face. "Couldn't say really. It used to be a cinch, but it's harder now. "He spoke in a voice reminiscent of Saiko Sikikan, the Java Occupation Force of the Imperial Japanese Army. "Still, it seems I heard on the radio earlier that they're taking on new ones. But you can bet it'll be harder to get in."

"Mr. Kumico, sir. This 'sanyo', what's it mean anyway?"

"Search me. These days people like to use complicated words for the most trivial things."

A customer approached. The man's hair was in a tangle and he was wearing nothing but a pajama top and boxer shorts. His legs, sticking out from the shorts, were no bigger than rice stalks. "Three cents' worth," he announced.

"The popsickle man took out three sticks and gave them to him.

"Not popsickles!" he said crossly, "Peanuts is what I want!"

"But the only thing you can get for three cents," Kadir remarked slowly, "is those popsickles."

"You give me peanuts, or else," the man insisted. "There's more sanyo than ever these days, or haven't you heard? If you don't give me those peanuts I'll report you!"

Kadir began to tremble with fear. He picked out a few small peanuts and gave them to the man, then plucked up the courage to ask: "Please sir, this sanyo they're talking about ... What's it mean exactly, if you don't mind my asking?"

"An Indonesian big shot," the man replied while cracking open a peanut. He cracked open another but found it empty. "A guy whose head is totally empty, like this!" He flung the shell at Kadir and angrily stomped away.

Kadir turned to the popsickle man. "That does it. We got to find out what a sanyo is. Who knows, he could be anything, a scalper for instance."

The popsickle man sighed while looking at his body. "It's a hard life these days. We're like popsickles, getting smaller all the time. In the end all that's left is water and the wooden sticks to be thrown away."

"I see it somewhat differently," Kadir added. "If you ask me, we're the same as popsickles, being bitten into and sucked on by people."

"Well, you know the saying, 'There's more than one path leading to the mosque.' You choose your own poison."

Music was playing on the radio in the square. A Japanese song, Kadir at first suspected, but somewhere in the middle he heard the phrase "my soul".

Kadir applauded when the song came to an end. "That was nice. Sounds like a modern keroncong song to me."

The two men were suddenly startled by the presence of another man standing before them. "A penny's worth of peanuts," the man said.

Quick as a wink Kadir reached over for a sheet of paper and wrapped the nuts before giving them to his customer. "Mind if I ask you something, sir?"

"Ask away!"

"What I'd like to know, sir is if this sanyo that everyone is talking about is a black marketeer?"

The customer was both startled and angry. "What did you say? How dare you insult Greater Japan! Do you know who I am? You must be a spy. Come along with me. It's off to the police station with you!"

Glossary:

keroncong: Portuguese-influenced music

kumico: kampong head under Japanese colonial system

Translated by D.W. Roskies

This story is taken from Menagerie 3, printed here courtesy of the Lontar Foundation.

Born on Sept. 22, 1921, in Padang, West Sumatra, Idrus is regarded as one of Indonesia's best writers. He wrote several collections of people-oriented stories focusing on simple human themes. He worked at Balai Pustaka publishing house and was a correspondent for the newspaper Merdeka. By 1960, he had moved to Kuala Lumpur, where he and his wife opened a publishing house and together published two magazines. He returned to his homeland in 1965 and was later offered a job at Monash University in Australia. He subsequently received his master's and took doctorate studies at the same university. Idrus died in his birthplace in 1979.