The Hand – Melchior Dias Fernandes

“Do you guys still eat corn out that way?” said the man sitting next me on a plane to Bali. He was what we always called a ‘Bapak’. He was returning to Jogyakarta from service in West Papua. I was going to Jogyakarta to study. His uniform reminded me of soldiers in East Timor several years ago when his country had colonised mine.

“Of course.” I smiled, passing him a can of lemonade from the airline trolley. He received it with a hand that shook as the plane moved through the sky.

It was his hand that jolted my memory back to when I was little. I was in grade three. It was the middle of the rainy season, so the fields were ripe with corn.

We would boil it or roast it. Our field was far from home; about two hours walk. At the time, you were allowed to keep a small farm, so long as it wasn’t deep in the forest. You had to be on the outskirts, otherwise they said you were a clandestine, up to no-good. They were worried you’d contact guerrillas. So the Bapaks let you cultivate the outskirts. That’s why we’d moved our corn so far from home.

I was walking in the field with my grandfather after school. It was a rainy afternoon but grandfather had agreed to take me to roast corn in the field. When we arrived, he waited as I entered the tall cornrows.

I had not gone far into the crop, when I saw someone standing amongst the corn. I’d never seen this person before. A thief! With long hair … and tattered, mismatched clothes, clothes like those of the Bapaks but the way he was wearing them was so odd – layer upon layer, and extra garments tied around his neck and waist, and a bag on his back. ‘A lunatic,’ I thought, ‘a mad devil, complete with a big black gun like the Bapaks carried.’

I called out, “Hey, thief! What are you doing! Get out of our field!” I hoped my grandfather would hear my voice, full of courage.

The man didn’t move; just stayed poised where he was like a strange, old statue. I moved towards him, not sure if I was scared or not. Grandfather was just a few metres away, though I couldn’t see him. The strange man broke off a head of corn and peeled off the leaves. He put the leaves down by the roots of the corn plant like a farmer would do, as if it was his own field.

I shouted again and still he didn’t move.

He called me softly, “Hey … hey … calm down.”

His voice was gentle but his face was the devil’s – a terrible face … But that voice ... It was so sweet, I lost my fear. I knew he wasn’t going to hurt me. So I went closer still. He reached out for me, smiling; his coarse hand trembled in the rain as it tried to land on my hair.

I moved away, and in a regretful tone, he muttered, “War. It brings us to this …” He shook his noodle-like hair and sighed, “A nephew not knowing his own uncle. I’m your dad’s big brother, and you don’t know me.”

The man was looking around.

“Where’s your grandfather?”

I asked the man, “How do you know my grandfather? Why are you talking like this to me?”

“Come, we’ll sit down with your grandfather; then you’ll see,” he said, picking up a knapsack from amongst the corn stalks.

I noticed his strange walk, his wounded leg, a messy hole in his calf. Grandfather had gone into his ‘choo’, the small shelter farmers build to rest in the heat of the day. We reached the choo and I ran inside to grandfather’s side. The stranger stooped at the doorway and shuffled in. Grandfather showed no surprise in seeing the man, but gestured towards the bleeding leg.

“That looks nasty – was there a shootout?”

Grandfather rested his old hand on the man’s knee and shook his head. I sat by the stranger’s side, curious now; still confused, but feeling the beginnings of affection. I listened to the men talking, hoping Grandfather would instruct me to help the man. His bag was sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall. Flies were gathering on its lid. He reached for the bag, his back almost blocking the knapsack from my view.

Grandfather’s spindly hands reached to cover my eyes but I could see clearly the incredible, horrible thing that came out of the bag. It was a Bapak’s hand. I could tell from its smoothness. It was unlike the hands of people from my village which are rough and stained with work. The Bapak’s hand is fine, long fingered with large round knuckles like marbles under the skin. The man carefully unclasped a watch, and he tossed the hand out the door.

I never told anyone about meeting my uncle or about the hand. For one, I didn’t think anyone would believe the story. Secondly, my grandmother had taught me about secrets. Children’s business is okay; you can tell anyone what you’ve been up to in the playground. But grown-ups’ business, especially about life and death in war, one must keep to oneself.

A voice sounded on the cabin speaker: “Prepare for landing.”

The Bapak by my side was dozing, his hand still cradling the soft drink. I tapped him gently on the wrist, “Pak, wake up; we’re landing!”

He stirred with a smile, “Oh, then welcome to Jogyakarta!”

We shook hands and parted.

Translated by Cipi K. Morgan