The Night Tiger(51)

No one has ever asked Ren that question before. At least, no grown-up. Auntie Kwan was always busy telling him what to do, not asking for his opinion, and for an instant, he misses her desperately. Tongue-tied, he gazes at Dr. MacFarlane’s nose, a trick that the old man taught him for when he feels too shy to meet someone in the eyes.

“You are a good person,” Ren says at last. He wonders whether Dr. MacFarlane is concerned about the rumors that he’s losing his mind, or if he’s even aware of them.

His master studies him for so long that Ren wants to look away, at his own small bare feet, or out of the window, but that’s impolite. Instead, he forces his gaze higher until he looks Dr. MacFarlane in the eye. And to his surprise, the old man looks sad.

“Let me show you something,” he says, walking with his stiff, familiar gait to the rolltop desk where he keeps all his papers. The keys are kept on a ring in Dr. MacFarlane’s pocket. After his death, the lawyer will go through every drawer but not before asking Ren, suspiciously, if he has touched anything.

Dr. MacFarlane takes out a photograph. There are two Malay men in the picture, bare-chested and squatting against a wall. The expressions on their faces are friendly, yet wary. The one on the right has what looks like a cord or a string tied around his upper arm.

“Which one of them is like me?” says the old man.

Ren wrinkles his brow in concentration. Is his master having another fit? But no, he’s calm and lucid. Then Ren sees it.

“The groove on his upper lip.” He points at the man on the right. “He doesn’t have one and neither do you.”

Dr. MacFarlane looks pleased, as proud as when Ren put the wireless radio back together after taking it apart.

“Yes,” he says. “That’s called a philtrum.” The troubled expression returns to his face.

“Who is this man?” asks Ren.

“I took this photograph five years ago, when I was traveling with a friend. We were in a little hamlet called Ulu Aring, and this chap,” he taps the man on the right, “was the local pawang.” Dr. MacFarlane speaks quickly, fluently in a way that he hasn’t in many days.

“Was that when you lost your finger?” As long as Ren has known Dr. MacFarlane, he’s been missing the last finger on his left hand.

“Yes, the same trip. When he saw me he was very excited.” The old doctor places one finger above his upper lip. “He put his hand right here, and called me abang.”

Older brother.

“Why?”

“He said this missing upper lip groove is the sign of a weretiger.”

Ren is silent, wondering if the old man is joking but there’s no hint of it in his pale eyes. There are stories about tiger-men, who come from the jungle to snatch children and gobble up chickens. He studies the black-and-white picture.

“Did you see him change into a tiger?”

“No, though other people said they had. When the mood struck, he’d say, ‘I’m going to walk,’ and enter the jungle, burning incense and blowing it through his fist until his skin changed and his fur and tail appeared. Then he’d hunt for days until he’d eaten his fill.

“When he was done, he’d squat down and say, ‘I’m going home,’ and turn back into a man. In his man-shape, he’d vomit up the undigested bones, feathers, and hair of everything he had eaten.”

Ren suddenly recalls Dr. MacFarlane’s vomiting fit and the retching, gagging sounds that came from behind the closed door.

“The other sign of a weretiger,” Dr. MacFarlane continues, “is a deformed paw. Whether it’s a front or hind leg, there’s always one that’s defective. When I lost my finger on that trip, the pawang told me to bury it with me so I could be made whole again—a man. I didn’t believe him at the time.” He falls silent.

Ren shifts uneasily, studying the old man’s profile. There’s an expression on his face he hasn’t seen before; a sly flicker, or is it a shadow that passes, like an eel, behind his eyes? “Do I look like a murderer to you?” Dr. MacFarlane asks.

Suddenly, Ren is frightened. He takes a step back, then another. Dr. MacFarlane, still staring out of the window, doesn’t notice when he leaves.

Ren can’t help but hear the words Do I look like a murderer to you? echo in his head over the next few days whenever he looks at Dr. MacFarlane. It’s a bewildering, frightening question. And so, when the foreign ladies in their light, fluttering dresses come trooping up the long gravel driveway a few days later to check on the doctor, Ren is glad of their interruption, though he rushes to tidy up.

When the ladies enter, they’re relieved to find the bungalow neat and clean, and Dr. MacFarlane seated in a rattan armchair, a book on his lap. They’re accomplices, the old man and the boy, though as Ren scurries back and forth, keeping other doors closed so they won’t see the rest of the house, he feels like a traitor. He suspects that it might be better if these women took charge, but how is he to explain that?

One of the ladies, stiff-bosomed like the prow of a ship, announces, “You can’t possibly stay here alone, especially with a man-eater loose.” Her high, sharp voice cuts through the room as Ren enters, balancing a tray with teacups. There are no biscuits; they ran out weeks ago.

Dr MacFarlane’s voice is heartier than he’s heard it in a long time, though the hand that grips the armchair trembles slightly. “Rubbish! I’m not alone anyway.”