The Scorched Moon

Hawa Arofah

Parto felt dizzy. He was in a state of confusion and was starting to panic. He was being forced to return to his home in a remote village in Central Java. He could no longer sell cendol on the sidewalks of a Jakarta suburb as a large-scale raid on vendors was rumored to be launched soon.

"Are you going back home?" asked his roommate at the lodging house.

"Yes. But I don't know of any other job I can do in the village. Cendol won't sell there, but chicken noodles will. Villagers say that eating cendol makes you foolish, but eating chicken noodles makes you smart like the Japanese!" said Parto in annoyance.

"Then just sell chicken noodles in the village."

"That needs a lot of capital!"

"But you still have some money, don't you?"

"I don't have much left. It may be just enough to pay off my debts. My wife owes a lot."

"You should borrow from a loan shark for the capital."

"Ah, I don't want to. The interest is too high and his thugs will come every day to collect payments."

"You can sell your wife's jewelry, can't you?"

"She hasn't owned any jewelry for a long time. She wears no earrings, let alone a necklace. Her wedding ring has even been pawned to cover daily expenses!"

"What about selling some of your land?"

"There's barely enough for my hut. I just can't sell anything in the village."

"Your wife is pretty, isn't she?"

"She's old now. Nobody would pick her up if she tried soliciting. With five kids, she's gotten overweight and flabby. She's anything but attractive!"

Parto was back home. The village was dark as it lay beyond the furthest reaches of the power grid. At night, the sky was lit up by the moon, and its light was frequently obscured by mist. The moon would look scorched when people burned straw beside their barns to repel mosquitoes. The scorched moon would become even dimmer and turn a brownish red.

"How much money did you bring home, Pak?" demanded Sunti, his wife. It was the middle-aged woman's first question upon his arrival from Jakarta.

"I've borrowed a lot from the neighbors! Rp 100,000!" Sunti said with a sour face.

Parto sighed deeply. "That is all I have -- Rp 100,000, Bu. And I am not going back to Jakarta again! I'm old. I don't want to die there."

Sunti was alarmed. "You want to eat stones in this village?! What will you do here? You've got no land to grow rice! You're not strong enough to be a farmhand!"

Parto kept silent. His wife was right. His body was too frail from tuberculosis. He was certainly weak. It would be impossible for him to become a farmhand, but he had to find work. The eldest of his five children was only nine, while the youngest was one year old. It was a fairly large family to feed.

"You have to return to Jakarta, Pak! If you can't sell cendol there, you can be a beggar or if you have to, or a thief or pickpocket."

Parto again sighed deeply. He stared at his wife with indignation.

"I don't want to be a beggar, Bu. A thief or a pickpocket? People in Jakarta do not take pity on vagrants. If any thief or pickpocket is caught, the crowd will turn on him and set him on fire!"

"So, what are you doing here, Pak?"

"I don't know, Bu."

"Why not? The children need food. I'm always busy looking after them. No one is going to pick me up if I try to sell myself. Who wants to pay for my body? There are lots of young and pretty whores around now!"

"Easy, Bu. Let me think first."

"Well, don't think too much, Pak! You may just lose your mind!"

Parto did not answer. He sat tightlipped, staring into space. The moon looked scorched. It became dimmer, turning a brownish red.

"I'm going to sell lottery tickets, Bu!" Parto said after having breakfast with his family.

"No, Pak! I don't agree with that!"

"Why?"

"Although people in this village are poor, they are devout Muslims. Gambling is forbidden, and nobody will buy them here!"

"I just want to try it, Bu. Who knows? Some people may like buying the tickets, and if anybody wins, others will want to buy them."

"Don't do it, Pak! People might get hostile with you if you insist on selling tickets."

"Don't you be worried, Bu. Although lottery tickets are forbidden, they are being sold everywhere. No ticket sellers have been arrested because it's rumored that the cops are backing the lottery! The governor and all the regents are even said to be enjoying its profits!"

"It's up to you then, Pak. But you've got to be careful!"

Parto smiled. The next morning he went to a ticket agent in the city and got accepted as a ticket retailer in his village. That night, he started selling the tickets from his home.

Several close neighbors sneaked in to buy them, and said "If I win, don't tell anybody! I would be embarrassed if anybody found out!"

In the nights to follow, a lot more people came around. His income increased, as well, and there was enough money to feed the entire family. Parto could even save some to buy clothes for himself, his wife and children.

None of his customers had won the game since he started selling the tickets. Some would even curse themselves for betting on numbers that were in the wrong order. For instance, they picked 2768, but the winning number was 8672.

"That's crazy! I got them mixed up for the fifth time now!"

"I could be a bum with all these continuous losses! Damn it!"

Nonetheless, more and more people were coming to buy tickets from his home. Parto was delighted with the increase in earnings from ticket sales.

In the second month, Parto could afford to buy a television set that was battery operated. The TV made his home popular with ticket buyers who at the same time watched programs while waiting for the winning numbers to be announced by the game's operators. The operators were like phantoms, nowhere to be found, not even by Parto. He was only contacted by the city agent, who was responsible for the distribution of prizes to successful ticket holders.

One night, Parto and a number of villagers were listening to the radio for the announcement of the winning numbers on an FM station. Parto smiled after hearing the announcement. All the visitors to his home were swearing again for the wrong numbers they had.

"Damn it!"

"Damn you!"

"Mad dog!"

Curses of disappointment and annoyance filled Parto's living room. Those who had vented their feelings left his home one by one.

Parto's home was now quiet. It was late at night. He felt sleepy as he shut the door and hurriedly entered the bedroom. His wife and children were already sound asleep in the other room.

Parto was fast asleep when Sunti screamed abruptly. "Pak! Our house is on fire!"

Parto was startled and sat up in panic. The bamboo walls and front door were in flames. The fire was spreading to the roof.

They both immediately snatched their children from their beds and ran through the back door.

"Somebody must have set our house on fire! It's all because you've been selling tickets! Sunti wept.

Neighbors rushed over with water buckets to help put out the blaze. But the fire was out of control and consumed most of the building. The fire lit up the sky, making the moon look scorched, turning it a brownish red.

Parto was sad. His house had been reduced to ashes. All the furniture was destroyed, some charred clothes lay scattered on the ground. He no longer dared to sell tickets. With the help of some close neighbors, he built a small hut for shelter.

Staying awake until midnight, Parto sat in the front yard, thinking hard. He had no money but the family had to survive somehow.

As the night grew colder and quieter, Parto began to smile as he thought of the chicken coop at the back of the house of Pak Lurah, who owned expensive Bangkok roosters.

"I'm going to steal the chief's roosters! If I get caught, I'll escape into the fields and hide in the sugar cane plantation," he thought. He got up and made his way to the farm of Pak Lurah.

Parto crept stealthily around the coop. But unfortunately, he startled the cocks and they crowed out loud.

"Thief! Thief!" security men patrolling the village head's house shouted at him as they saw him run into the fields.

Lots of people got up and rushed out of their homes, wielding pointed weapons. Pak Lurah was also awakened and promptly led the chase.

"The thief went into the sugar cane plantation!"

"Just burn it!"

"Yes!"

They set fire to the one-hectare plantation. Parto stayed hidden in the burning fields. He was trembling with fear, watching the flames grow all around him. He finally surrendered, while looking up through his tears at the scorched moon.

Notes

Cendol: green-colored rice flour dough in iced syrup.

Pak: term of address for a man, father or husband.

Bu: term of address for a woman, mother or wife.

Lurah: subdistrict chief

Translated by Aris Prawira