The Market

The Market

By Ahmad Faishal

Who would have expected they would ever become friends. Then
again, anything can happen when people are brought together in a
market. They easily become close to each other to pass the time
during the long wait for customers.

With her lips daubed with a stab of garish lipstick and her
face carelessly powdered, the chubby butcher, her bracelets and
necklaces the size of her fingers, is not an inviting sight. She
often growls at buyers who bargain too low for her liking.

"Go slaughter it yourself, then," is her common retort.

Once she picked a quarrel with a buyer when the latter asked
for a little more meat as a bonus. The butcher, knowing every
detail of her profit or loss, flatly refused.

The buyer continued to gripe and pretended to cancel the
transaction unless she got the bonus. With a sarcastic smile on
her face, she said, "Come on, you make a big profit, anyway,
right?"

God knows what possessed the butcher because, in a split
second, a half-kilo of meat was hurled at the buyer, who spared
no time in throwing stones back at her face.

Both eventually fainted and had to be taken to the hospital.
For the next four days, the butcher did not turn up at her kiosk.

Her best friend in the market is a fishmonger. She dresses in
the simple clothes of the other market vendors, but she can spin
fantastic stories. The friendship between the two vendors became
stronger because both shared this love of telling stories during
the long days at the market.

They are from different places, the butcher from the rural
hinterland while the fishmonger hails from a coastal area. Every
day they spend their time chatting and giggling, and there are
always things of interest for them to talk about.

The two agreed one day that the smell of the soil at the
beginning of the rainy season portended the coming of an
epidemic. For six or seven months, the body and the soul are
exposed to heat and for the next six or five months rain-induced
coldness prevails. Two mutually enervating seasons, dry and wet.

You had a headache yesterday, fever blisters the next and sore
eyes the following day, they said, dissolving into laughter at
their "wisdom".

"Our fishermen are loath to go to sea now," commented the
fishmonger one day.

"Why?" the butcher inquired, eager to know the reason.

"It's the rainy season, you see. But worse still, the sea is
now partitioned. You have boundaries and you must not cross them
when you fish. So, our fishermen only sail around nearby islands.
Look, they catch the same fish all the time, only tuna and
milkfish."

"Who the hell has put up these boundaries?"

"Well, it's an agreement, I don't know for sure. It was only
after the bloody conflicts that people became reluctant to go out
to sea. Huh, this is the result. Our earnings are down," the
fishmonger griped, the words spilling out of her mouth as one of
her hands, holding a handkerchief, was busy swatting at a nagging
swarm of flies.

"Bloody conflicts! What do you mean?" the butcher said, moving
closer to her friend.

"They're killing one another, tossing bombs at each other,"
she said in a louder voice, nodding her head knowingly.

"Any dead?"

"Six of my neighbors have died and three others have gone
missing. Well, one whole family was killed. I cannot imagine how
these people could kill one another while they speak the same
language, are the same religion and have the same habits."

She lowered her voice slightly and brought her mouth closer to
the butcher, almost touching her ear.

"But, for a week at a stretch I didn't have to cook rice. My
husband and my children joined the tahlilan (the repeated
recitation of the confession of faith). I myself dropped in at a
victim's house. You see, for a few days I could save up on rice
at home.

"Well, they have themselves to blame for these bloody
conflicts."

The two of them began laughing again, their guffaws growing
into a roar. Others stared at them with great curiosity,
whispering to each other, wondering how these two women could be
so cheerful. Then, sneering at them, they moved on.

"And then?"

"The conflicts weren't any good for me, you see. For almost a
month, nobody wanted to buy fish," the fisherwoman said, slowly
counting her money but not looking at her friend.

"Ten baskets of fish simply rotted at home. Well, at least the
stray cats got fatter. We didn't have space to dry our clothes. I
couldn't give the fish to my neighbors as they were in the same
boat. Even the bedroom was filled with fish. At that time, fish
was abundant."

"How come?"

"Well, some people like to spread nonsense. Come on now, use
your common sense. How could it be that the fish ate the victims
of the conflict? Huh, how can they allow themselves to be fooled?
Indeed, people today are easily influenced. They should not have
believed the story of fish eating the bodies of victims. A
sensational report must not be just taken for granted, right?"

"Yes, but there'd be no problem with meat. People wouldn't
believe a cow would eat a human being," the butcher said
teasingly, breaking into laughter.

The butcher's comment and laughter suddenly made the
fishmonger suspicious. Perhaps, it was all her doing, she
thought, and now she is having a chuckle about it, taking
pleasure from the pain she had caused.

If so, she would get her own back.

She thought that she would secretly tell people that the
butcher was not actually selling beef, but water buffalo meat, or
horse carcass, or even rotten cow flesh.

She stared at the butcher, who continued giggling. The
fishmonger tried to control her emotions. She inhaled deeply.
Then she laughed, although it was decidedly forced.

They chatted again, just like usual, but the fishmonger's
feeling remained. She was not the like the butcher, who struck
out like a wild animal when she was angry, but she would wait for
the right time for her revenge.

"Have you sold all your fish?"

"There's some salted fish, and the rest is fermented fish
condiment."

"Oh, yes, how's your husband doing? Is his rheumatism still
troubling him?"

"It's a little better but he quickly tires now."

"So he must take a lot of rest!" the butcher said, again
teasing, her eyes staring sharply and her lips forming a downward
arc.

"Hush! Once he didn't come home for three days. I was really
worried and I even slept on the beach. I prayed to God that he
hadn't fallen victim to the bloody conflict. I'm not ready
physically and mentally.

"Know what my neighbors did? They laughed at me, saying: 'Love
is love. OK, love your husband dearly but keep hold of your
senses!' Others said, 'Today fishermen have more risks. They may
be killed or their boat capsized or keep a mistress in another
port.'"

"Was your husband involved in the bloody conflict?" the
butcher asked seriously.

"I don't know. But, when I was anxiously waiting for him and
then dozed off, I was suddenly surprised to feel his moustache on
my face. Laughing loudly, he said, 'I don't have a big catch.'
After what other people had told me, I had a growing suspicion
about him. Who knows that he keeps a mistress, just like the
villagers showing off their riches by having several wives. You
know I always pray that I won't be too rich nor too poor. Both
are risky, you know."

"If I could be really wealthy, I would buy more earrings,
necklaces, bracelets and you could lend me the money."

"How much is this fish?" someone asked.

"Uh, Rp 3,000 for the bigger one and Rp 1,500 for the smaller
one. The milkfish is Rp 1,000 per three fish. If you want to buy
a lot, the price is lower. Look, fresh fish, it came here only
last night. Not too salty. You can bring it back tomorrow if it's
not fresh any more. I'll give you twice as many."

"Anything else?"

"This is the rainy season. The fishermen consider themselves
lucky to come home alive."

"I'm actually looking for pomfret. Thanks."

Surabaya 2002

Translated by Ismiarti.