The early morning market still carried the leftover smell of mud from yesterday’s flood, but for Pak Haji Duloh, that smell had turned into the sharp scent of money.
At his strategic stall, he no longer looked rushed to arrange ice blocks or organize plastic baskets.
His eyes kept glancing toward the entrance, where Anom usually appeared with his two legendary plastic buckets.
Since Anom’s plecostomus fillets entered the market, Pak Haji Duloh had realized one thing.
He was no longer just a collector of trash fish.
He was now the monopoly holder of a commodity called white meat, whose quality was starting to be talked about among meatball stall owners and home-based cracker makers.
However, as a seasoned trader, Pak Haji Duloh knew that a monopoly was fragile.
If he could recognize the quality of Anom’s meat, then other collectors at the next market were just waiting for the right time to catch the same secret.
…
When Anom appeared with his calm steps, Pak Haji Duloh didn’t greet him with shouts or grumbles like usual.
Instead, he waved, signaling Anom to follow him to a wooden bench behind the stall.
A private area usually used for counting profits or entertaining equal business partners.
Anom put his two plastic buckets on the cement floor.
He followed Pak Haji Duloh with a cautious feeling.
In his experience, kindness from people like Pak Haji Duloh often had hidden thorns.
“Sit down first, Anom.
Have some coffee,” Pak Haji Duloh said, pushing a plastic cup of steaming black liquid toward him.
Anom sat down, but his back didn’t lean back.
He stayed upright, his eyes looking at the white fillets in his bucket that he had just opened.
The market’s neon light reflected off the surface of the springy meat, showing a freshness that was almost impossible for fish that came from the toll road canal water.
“Have you heard about the new collector at the next market, Anom?
Sitorus?” Pak Haji Duloh asked while lighting his clove cigarette.
Anom shook his head slowly.
He didn’t have time to listen to market gossip.
His world only revolved around the black water, Inem, and his fillet knife.
“They’re starting to get aggressive,” Pak Haji Duloh continued, his cigarette smoke dancing in the stuffy air.
“They’re looking for new suppliers.
They heard about the white meat that sells so well at my stall.
I heard they’re willing to pay higher, maybe two thousand or three thousand more per kilo than my price.
But you know yourself, Sitorus is new.
He might not be able to protect you if there’s trouble with the market officials.”
Anom stayed quiet.
He knew this was the start of a negotiation.
He didn’t feel happy that the price might go up; he actually felt tired.
For him, money was a tool for survival and paying off his debt to Mpok Lela, not something to be played around with in market politics.
Pak Haji Duloh watched Anom’s flat reaction.
He felt a little frustrated.
Usually, people like Anom would light up at the mention of a higher price.
But Anom seemed to have an invisible fortress around him.
“I want you to stay here, Anom.
I want you to be my regular supplier.
Only for me,” Pak Haji Duloh said.
His voice was now lower, more serious.
“I don’t want you playing around with other collectors.
To show how serious I am, I want to give you something.”
Pak Haji Duloh took out a thin brown envelope from his shirt pocket, stained with fish oil.
He put it on the wooden table, right in front of Anom.
“This isn’t charity, Anom.
Not a loan either.
Consider it an advance payment.
Capital,” Pak Haji Duloh continued.
“Use it to buy stronger new nets, fix your shack so it doesn’t leak, or buy good food for your woman for the next month.
I don’t want you to worry about daily money.
Your only job is to make sure these super-quality fillets only end up in my hands.”
Anom stared at the envelope.
He knew there was a good amount inside.
Maybe enough to change his life under the toll road into something a little more comfortable.
He could replace his tarpaulin roof with thicker plywood, or maybe buy new clothes for Inem, whose clothes were already torn.
But Anom didn’t immediately grab the envelope.
He remembered Inem’s words about water that chooses.
He realized that the miracle he had now didn’t come from his own effort, but was something entrusted to him.
And now, that trust was starting to be bought by human greed.
“This isn’t a loan?” Anom asked to be sure.
“No.
It’s an investment.
I’m investing in your ability, Anom,” Pak Haji Duloh answered with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
“An investment for the survival of this stall.”
Anom took the envelope and put it in his pants pocket.
He didn’t say “yes” or an excessive “thank you.” He also didn’t promise his loyalty out loud.
He just stood up, lifted his two empty buckets after Pak Haji Duloh had moved the fillets into the ice tank.
Pak Haji Duloh was confused by Anom’s attitude.
In decades of trading, he had never met someone who received a large amount of money with the attitude of someone who had just been handed a glass of plain water.
There was something very cold yet honest about Anom that made Pak Haji Duloh feel a little uneasy.
But he also felt relieved.
Anom didn’t refuse the money, and in market law, accepting money meant accepting a bond.
“Bring more tomorrow, Nom!
Customers from the meatball restaurants in the city are starting to order in large quantities,” Pak Haji Duloh shouted as Anom started walking away.
…
Anom kept walking through the increasingly crowded market.
He didn’t feel like a newly rich man.
He actually felt that his pocket containing the envelope was very heavy, as if he was carrying a rock that could drag him to the bottom of the canal.
On the way home, on a bridge crossing the train tracks, Anom stopped for a moment.
He opened the envelope and looked at the money inside.
The amount was indeed large, more than what he earned in a month during the hard times before.
“Investment for what?” Anom muttered to himself.
He didn’t understand that term.
For him, investment was a new burden of responsibility.
Pak Haji Duloh was no longer just a buyer; the man was now part-owner of his time and his work.
Anom felt his freedom slowly being pawned away.
…
When he got back under the toll road, he saw Inem sitting at the water’s edge.
Inem didn’t turn around, but she knew Anom was back.
Anom approached and sat beside Inem.
He took out the envelope and put it on the cement between them.
“Pak Haji Duloh gave me this.
He said it’s for capital,” Anom said.
Inem glanced at the envelope briefly, then looked back at the flowing water.
“Money can’t buy water, Anom.
Money also can’t make plecostomus talk.”
“I know.
But he wants me to sell only to him.
He’s afraid I’ll go to another collector,” Anom explained.
“Should I give it back?
I’m afraid this will become a problem later.”
Inem shook her head slowly.
“Just keep it.
Humans need those things to feel secure in their fragile world.
Pak Haji Duloh is just trying to buy his own fear.
As long as you don’t let that money get into your heart, it won’t be able to hurt you.”
Anom sighed.
He put the money back in his pocket.
He decided to use some of it to pay off his entire debt to Mpok Lela this afternoon, and save the rest as emergency funds.
Inem never asked for anything, never complained about their poverty.
Inem’s presence seemed to stand above all material matters.
But behind that calmness, Anom realized that his status had changed.
In Pak Haji Duloh’s eyes, he was a strategic partner.
In Ali’s eyes, he was a rival with mystical power.
And in his own eyes, he was still Anom, just a fish catcher now caught between two worlds.
…
Anom started taking his knife and sharpening it on a pillar stone.
The sound of metal scraping was sharp in the silence under the toll road.
He realized that the money from Pak Haji Duloh was a sign that his secret couldn’t be hidden much longer.
Pak Haji Duloh’s greed would attract others’ attention, and sooner or later, the peace under this toll road would be disturbed by those who wanted to own a miracle without being willing to taste the bitterness of the mud.
That afternoon, Anom walked toward Mpok Lela’s stall with steady steps.
He would end one chapter of his life, the chapter about debt and shame.
Under the toll road, Inem still faithfully stared at the water.
She knew money was poison to a miracle, but she also knew that Anom was a human who had to survive in a poisoned world.
She let Anom do what he had to do, while keeping the water so it still recognized the man’s net, at least for a while, before fate came to collect a greater promise