by John Greet
‘Hah, listen to you! Mum had me when she was seventeen, didn’t she? Now tell me about what’s going on with you? Are you looking after yourself? How are you feeling?’
After our conversation, I took a seat by the pool and watched the wind ruffle the water’s surface. A leaf blew in from the banyan tree, and I scooped it out, the water cool against my hands. Not only was I in a relationship at Grace’s age, we owned and managed Auckland’s finest Italian restaurant. I’d met Elisabeth when we were both sixteen. I was studying then for my offshore yacht masters ticket during the day and working at Milano’s at night. She worked as a waitress at the restaurant.
I can see her now in her tight blue jeans, her hair piled up on the top of her head and held together with a Japanese comb, her teasing green eyes, her easy laugh as she served a table. I loved everything about her. I remember her voice, low and husky, as she pulled me aside in the kitchen and said, ‘Hey, I know this really cool club downtown where they don’t ask for IDs … Wanna come?’ That night Elisabeth took me to her room, and under her sheets, with her hand clamped over my mouth so her parents couldn’t hear, I lost my virginity to her.
Soon, we were spending every moment we could together. Our hormones seemed to run our lives. We couldn’t get enough of each other. If her shift finished before mine, we were gone, running out of the restaurant even as my father stood in the doorway, chef’s knife in hand, shouting obscenities after us in Italian.
When Elisabeth got pregnant, our families disapproved and counselled us not to go ahead with it: we were too young, they’d said, but for us there was never any doubt about it. We were keeping the baby. Grace was born premature, and both mother and daughter had to spend many weeks resting and recuperating at the hospital.
I found a two-room apartment not far from Milano’s and asked my father if he could sign the rental agreement as we were both under age, and if he could help us with the rent too. He didn’t speak a word as he signed the document and handed me a cheque. He sat in his swivel chair, rested his hands on his generous girth and looked at me with a sorrowful face.
Elisabeth and Grace came home soon. The baby was tiny and fragile, with her delicate face and Buddha belly. We were good parents for a couple so young.
For one year we lived in a bubble of domestic bliss. It was hard trying to make ends meet, and to juggle work, study and family, but looking back, it was still one of the happiest years of my life. At the end of my shift, my father would sometimes haul me over to the stove and slip a roll of money into my top pocket. When I tried to thank him, he’d raise a palm and say, ‘Basta, it’s for bambina.’
A year later, at the age of forty-eight, my father had a heart attack. One minute he was preparing a slab of scotch fillet, and the next, he was dead. His huge body lay on the kitchen floor, eyes open, covered in the calamari rings that had toppled from the table and landed on him as he fell. A desperate kitchen staff tried to revive him while I watched, paralysed with shock. Moments later the ambulance staff pronounced him dead. I didn’t go with the body. I picked up the filleting knife and continued preparing the scotch fillet my father had left unfinished, barely able to see if I was cutting the steak or my own flesh. The staff looked at me in confusion.
7
Not long after the full moon ceremony, Anak arrived at the hotel. He came riding in his chariot: the extraordinary vehicle had the lower half of a silver Mercedes Benz, and he sat high in the back seat, with his cocks in wicker cages placed on either side of him. Anak had won the car in a cock fight. However, he’d decided the vehicle was too hot and unsuitable for transporting his cockerels to the fights, so he ordered for the upper half of it to be cut off. This job went to a local handyman named Bung, whose only qualification for the job was that he owned some antique welding equipment. Bung had made a dog’s breakfast of it, leaving an ugly jagged edge of burnt black metal around the car. To correct this, Anak commissioned a temple carver to create a railing out of coconut logs. The artist took his commission to heart and carved images of Hindu gods wrestling with serpent-bodied dragons and of fierce-faced barong and rangda rising out of the wood, while a multitude of lesser gods adorned the rear. A deep groove had been cut on the underside of the carved logs so they sat neatly over the botched metal. The carvings ran down both sides of the car and a further piece was added to traverse the rear. Once bolted and fitted, they created a wooden boundary, like a set of horizontal totem poles, framing the red-leather upholstered interior of what was left of the Mercedes Benz.
The carvers must have been caught in a creative flow because they forgot about the doors. And since it would be considered sacrilege to cut through an image of a deity in order to accommodate a car door, Anak simply got into the vehicle as if mounting a horse. The final adornment on the car was the placement of a large, carved Garuda head with moonstone eyes in place of the Mercedes Benz emblem on the bonnet. The end result was curiously pleasing: the vehicle was an interesting blend of modern Teutonic automotive design and ancient Balinese artistry. The shine of the silver-bodied Mercedes complemented the speckled grain of the coconut wood carvings, and breathed life into the eyes of the ancient Hindu bird-like deity. When travelling, Anak sat cross-legged on the back seat’s leather cushion, his arms folded, and his black hair cascading out from under his straw hat. His driver and cock-handler was a high-born man called Gusti. It was in this manner that Anak travelled to every major cockfight on the island of Bali.
I had been expecting him that morning when his chariot pulled up under the banyan tree. Wayan had told me that he was coming. She’d groomed the coffee shop in preparation of his arrival. The palm-weave matting and bamboo had been brushed and the tiled floor polished. On the tables were placed coconut bowls with floating frangipani petals.
While Gusti and Ketut fussed over the cockerels and placed their wicker cages in the shade, Anak got out of his chariot and strode into the coffee shop, smiling. Slightly anxious I rose to meet him. The last time I’d seen him was on the night of the episode with the blood stone, and the incident with Ketut and the truck.
‘How are you, Adam?’ he asked, and in the same breath, ‘I want you to meet someone.’ Anak clapped his hands and called, ‘Gusti, bring Ali.’
A moment later, Gusti placed a magnificent cockerel on the table before us. The bird shone with good health: his plumage was a deep red, shimmering with golden highlights and hackles of iridescent blue. With his neck poised and tail extended, the bird cocked an eye towards me. Anak held Ali in both hands and bounced him up and down, while gently ruffling its feathers.
I’d observed Balinese men paying more attention to their fighting cocks than to their wives. They were petted, lovingly fondled and spoken to in soothing tones. Ba mantap! I’d heard women shout to groups of men squatting idly in the courtyard, each with a rooster between his legs – it meant ‘cock crazy’ in the island’s dialect.
‘Ali here has never lost a fight,’ Anak told me proudly as he handed the bird to Gusti. ‘Adam, I want you to do me a service. That is why I am here, to ask this of you.’
He called Wayan to him and whispered something into her ear, and the coffee shop was immediately cleared. Staff shuffled away quietly, heads bowed down. Anak waited with folded arms, and when he was satisfied we wouldn’t be overheard, he leaned forward and said, ‘There is a major cock-fighting tournament the day after tomorrow. I want you to come and bet on Ali, place large bets, a million rupiah each. But you should come as a tourist. Bring Geno and Paolo with you. You can all bet.’
‘Where’s the tournament?’ I asked. I was aware that cockfighting was illegal in Indonesia, and I didn’t want to get involved in something that might land me in a police station.
‘Don’t worry, far away from here: Singaraja, north of the island. No police. There are very rich competitors coming in from Java. But there is one in particular … I want to take his money.’
‘Who?’
‘Mahmood Bas.’ Anak spat his name out like a curse. �
��Bas has a flock of the best fighting cocks money can buy, and he hires the top Javanese handlers. But Ali can beat them all. The bird has a god-given spirit,’ Anak said. He caught my gaze and held it. ‘Will you do this?’
Of course there would be some risk involved in this, but on the other hand, it would be a way to repay Anak for all that he had done for me. And if we were rounded up by the police, I would have my forged passport to show them and a pocketful of cash to give them, should a bribe be necessary.
‘I will,’ I said.
That night I spoke to Geno and Paolo. They were into the plan as well.
‘Hey, man, if we can take down that motherfucker Mahmood Bas we in, we coming,’ said Geno.
* * *
The next morning Anak dropped off a package of three million rupiah. The tournament fights would be held at a yet-to-be disclosed location the next day. We were told to bet a million each on Ali, when Anak’s cock was pitted against one of Mahmood Bas’s birds. Anak would send someone to inform us when that would be, well before the fight. Gusti filled me in on the finer points of the rules of cockfighting. As game-cock owners, Anak and his opponent held the central bet, and therefore were not permitted to side bet. The side betting was run by money lenders and independent bush bankers with large amounts of cash. In Bali, fortunes were made or lost on a single, one-minute cockfight. The big money was in the side bet. That’s where we came in. Gusti told us there were always a couple of tourists at the fights, and they generally bet big, and of course Mahmood Bas didn’t know us. Although we were neighbours, I’d never met the man.
The drive to Singaraja took us through Ubud, a mountain village renowned for Balinese fine arts. Artists displayed their canvases on easels outside studios that were set against a backdrop of tropical foliage. Braced against the brisk mountain air, we continued our ascent of Mt. Agung, moving up a winding narrow road, past terraced rice paddies carved precariously into mountainous ridges, and to the crater. Geno pulled the Jeep to a stop on the ridge, the most elevated road on the island. On one side, we saw a panoramic vista of the southern slopes of Bali, and on the other, a mist-shrouded crater lake, and further on, the summit of Mt. Agung. Through breaks in the mist, we saw on the eastern shores of the lake a burial ground reserved for high-born Balinese.
After lunch at a roadside stall, we began our descent. The hour-long drive twisted and turned through the densest rainforests on the island, towards Singaraja, the old Dutch colonial capital on the northern shores of Bali. We checked into the second floor of a Dutch pension, a place with overhead fans, creaky wooden floors and planters’ chairs set on a balcony that overlooked the town centre.
Singaraja was cockfight crazy. All the cockfighting aficionados had descended on the town and were gearing up for the tournament. There were wicker baskets of birds on the backs of motorbikes, tucked under arms, and there were groups of men squatting on pavements, comparing their birds, cooing to them, blowing on their beaks and setting them in mock combat against each other, only to retrieve them quickly before any damage was done.
Although cockfighting and gambling were illegal in Indonesia, owning fighting birds wasn’t. The game birds didn’t have to be concealed. For this reason, the organisers of the tournament wouldn’t reveal the location of an up-coming fight until the last minute. They often set up a decoy fight in another location just to confuse the police. Word of the real location would then spread quickly before the fight, and the town would quietly empty, leaving the police looking at deserted footpaths covered in bird shit and feathers.
We heard a soft tapping on our door, and a small boy stood there. I recognised him as one of Anak’s. His face beamed with pride as he handed me a folded piece of paper and ran off. It was a map, leading us to the location of the fight. With Geno navigating, we set off in the Jeep. Earlier, we’d divided the money – a million rupiah per man. The tournament, according to our map, would be held behind the temple ruins about three kilometres outside the city. We turned down a rutted dirt road overgrown with vines and creepers, and came out at a clearing under some scrub trees. The number of dusty motorbikes and parked vehicles indicated the grand size of the tournament. I saw Anak’s chariot parked by the temple wall. The entrance to the cockpit was through crumbling brown terracotta pillars covered in lichen moss and honeysuckle vines. Once inside, it took us a moment to adjust to the frenzied atmosphere. A fight was underway; a dense crowd of noisy, gesticulating men circled the arena, calling for side bets. Their shouts drowned the raucous laughter and the calls of food sellers hawking their wares. Wicker cages encircled the periphery of the cockpit and all outlying grounds of the temple ruins, while cock handlers displayed their birds. Tournament officials, in black and white turbans, paired off competing birds.
The crowd cleared when the fight ended, and I finally got a glimpse of the cockpit. The bird that’d lost, a speckled black-and-white cockerel, lay dead in the centre of the pit, soaked in its own blood. The owner bent over and retrieved his valuable metal spurs by hacking off the bird’s feet with a machete. Then he picked up his cock by its stumps, blood dripping from its beak, and hurled it into a growing pile of carcasses. Gusti had told me that cockfights were often held in or near temples. The spilling of blood onto the ground became part of a religious rite. This way, the losing cocks contribute to the appeasement of small animal-like demons and spirits, the bata and kula that lurk in the undergrowth around temples.
I looked around for Anak and spotted his group under the shade of some scrub trees. They’d built a colourful shelter out of sarongs to keep the sun off their birds.
A cockfight generally lasted only three minutes, so up to twenty-five fights were scheduled for the day. Another fight began, and Geno and Paolo were getting their feet wet, waving their money at the bookies and making their own small bets. Mahmood Bas’s group, dressed in white kaftans and skull caps, were sitting close to where I stood. I recognised the hotelier under a white umbrella surrounded by cages. His cocks looked magnificent and his handlers were many. I hoped Anak knew what he was doing. I moved away quietly, having decided to appear only when the big-money fights were on. I bought an iced mango juice and marvelled at the ingenuity of the seller who’d transported ice, mangoes and glasses on a bicycle to the tournament. In the shade of the ruins, I sipped my drink, wondering how such a large event was kept secret from the police. An hour later, the same boy who had brought us the note earlier walked past and caught my eye.
Anak’s and Bas’s cocks were on. I manoeuvred my way through the dense crowd to the edge of the cockpit. Geno stood opposite me; Paolo further around. Anak was positioned at the edge of the cockpit, his arms folded, watching the razor sharp steel spurs being tied to Ali’s legs. Gusti squatted on his haunches holding the bird. At the other end of the cockpit, Bas’s men were doing the same. The referee inspected the tying of the spurs on both cocks – a part of the preliminaries. Gusti and Bas’s handler moved to the centre and squatted, holding their birds. They both plucked hackle feathers and flicked at the birds’ beaks to rouse their fighting spirit.
On the strike of a gong, the birds were released, and the fight began. Bas’s cock, a powerful-looking bird, dark buff, with a silvery blue mane, circled Ali, its head extended and hackles flared, head cocked to one side. The betting, permitted until the first engagement, was furious. It took only seconds to place my million-rupiah bet with a bookie. The transaction passed without notice amongst the jostling throng.
The crowd fell silent with a sudden awed hush. The buff bird rushed towards Ali, crashing with such force that it fell backwards. Ali reeled back. The buff bird regained its footing quickly. The birds were in the air again, striking at each other. Spurs flashed. Wings beat in a whirl of motion. The birds dropped to the ground and crouched, heads extended towards each other. Hackles flared in a standoff. The crowd inhaled as one. Then the buff bird dashed in, trying to knock Ali off its feet. The red bird feinted expertly sideways, and the buff bird tore past, missing its target.
As the charging bird whirled about, Ali was on top of him in a flurry of legs and spurs, pinning the buff to the ground with its beak. A dark blood stain appeared below the buff bird. Ali had drawn blood. The silvery buff bird, pierced through the breast by Ali’s spur, lay motionless. The fight had lasted less than thirty seconds. Ali had won. Pandemonium broke as the bookies collected and paid out. The winners called for their money while the losers retreated. As I picked up my winnings, a parcel of two million rupiah, I noticed Anak looking directly at Mahmood Bas across the pit. As their eyes met, I felt once again the chilling force of their hatred.
Cockfighting rules dictated that the owner of the losing bird had the right to one rematch against the same winning bird. If that bird wins twice, the third fight is the winner’s choice. This almost never happens. Because of wounds and exhaustion, most birds don’t survive three fights in a row. But when it does, the central bet is tripled. If a bird wins three times in a row, the amount the challenger has to pay is huge, often running into tens of millions. If the bird loses the third fight, the owner forfeits only the original central bet.
Bas’s team selected a pure white cock for the next fight. The bird was almost invisible against the white kaftans of the handlers who squatted centre pit. Gusti took his time pampering Ali, repairing ruffled feathers and blowing on its head. The spurs were tied and inspected, and the fight was on. Bas’s team were going pound for pound. The white bird was huge. Without hesitation, it charged at Ali. The white bird rose up and planted its spur firmly into Ali’s breast. I noticed that both Geno and Paolo had placed their bets. We had two million rupiah riding on this fight.
Ali lay beneath the white cock, pinned to the ground by its beak. The crowd’s rumbling quickly faded into silence. Both birds were at a deadly standstill. Slowly Ali managed to get one foot out from underneath its body and used this as a lever to push itself up. Ali stood, pulling along the white bird, even as its beak was still firmly attached to Ali’s neck. Again, I saw a flurry of spurs from the white bird hit Ali in the breast, but these blows had no effect. Anak’s bird shrugged them off and, finally, the white bird could no longer hold its grip and let go. Wings extended and head craned forward, it turned and ran, with Ali in pursuit, straight into the hands of its handler.
