Pak Haji Duloh was tidying up his scale when a middle-aged woman in a flowery daster and a cloth shopping bag stood in front of his table.
The woman didn’t immediately look at the mackerel or tilapia displayed in the front row.
Her eyes went straight to the corner of the table, to where Pak Haji Duloh hid the super-quality Plecostomus fillets.
The woman took one plastic bag of white fillet meat.
She brought it close to her eyes, examining it carefully like she was checking if gold was real.
She smelled it, then pressed the texture of the meat with her fingertip, a finger used to picking the best cooking ingredients.
“Is this from Anom, Haji Duloh?” the woman asked in a very specific tone.
Pak Haji Duloh felt a little startled hearing that.
His hand, which was holding a rag, suddenly froze.
He then looked at the woman with a furrowed brow, trying to remember if he had ever mentioned Anom’s name in front of this customer.
“Yes, ma’am.
But…
how do you know that name?” asked Pak Haji Duloh, his voice carrying a wary tone he couldn’t hide.
The woman smiled widely, showing her neat teeth.
“My neighbor bought some here last week.
She said the Plecostomus from under the toll road is really different.
Fresher, no muddy smell at all.
When she cooked it for meatballs, she said the texture was springy like expensive sea fish meat.
And she mentioned the name Anom, said he’s the one who catches the fish.
I got curious and wanted to try it myself.”
…
Pak Haji Duloh served the woman with mixed feelings.
On one hand, he felt immense trading satisfaction because having a product that people search for because of the catcher’s name is every seller’s dream.
But on the other hand, an alarm bell was ringing loudly in the back of his head.
Anom’s name seemed to be turning into a brand now.
Even here, at his place.
At the market, and when a name starts to be widely known, it means Pak Haji Duloh’s control over this secret commodity was being threatened.
If buyers started to know who Anom was and where he operated, it wouldn’t take long for speculators or big restaurant owners to try cutting Pak Haji Duloh’s distribution chain.
They could go straight to the toll road and offer higher prices, leaving Pak Haji Duloh with an empty stall.
“Two packs, ma’am.
This is fresh meat, just arrived at dawn,” said Pak Haji Duloh while wrapping the fillets.
…
After the woman left, Pak Haji Duloh sat back down on his high chair.
He watched the people passing in front of him with suspicious looks, every buyer now looking like a spy trying to steal the source of his wealth.
Anom’s organically growing reputation was a double-edged sword even for him, raising his sales, but also tearing away the protective cover he had built to monopolize Anom’s work.
“Anom, Anom…
are you a blessing or a disaster for me?” Pak Haji Duloh joked while counting his remaining fillet stock, which was running low.
…
Meanwhile, far from Pak Haji Duloh’s anxiety, under the toll road, was enjoying a relatively quieter afternoon.
Anom was sitting on a large piece of wood he used as a work table.
In front of him, a pile of Plecostomus he had just taken from the net was waiting to be processed.
Inem sat beside him.
She was wearing the shirt Anom had given her, now clean, although it was too big.
The woman was doing something she had never done before.
She was holding the fish,h too.
But her fingers touched the hard, rough scales with a strange gentleness.
Anom watched Inem’s hand movements.
Usually, Plecostomus would struggle hard when touched, but under Inem’s fingers, the fish became very calm.
They seemed to enter a trance-like state, letting themselves be held without resistance.
“You’re holding these fish, Inem?” asked Anom while continuing to slice the back skin of another fish.
Inem didn’t turn her head, but her eyes were fixed on a fish whose eyes were starting to look dull.
She rubbed the fish’s head with her fingertip.
“I used to heal people with these hands, Anom.
Important people, people who thought they were holy.”
Anom stopped slicing and looked at Inem with curiosity.
Every time Inem talked about her past, the world under the toll road seemed to fade away, replaced by shadows of a collapsed glory.
“Now these hands can only heal fish.
Good enough,” Inem said softly.
Anom watched a small miracle happen before his eyes.
The fish that had looked weak and nearly dead in Inem’s hands suddenly moved its fins again.
Its eyes, which had been cloudy, became clear and bright again, as if life energy had been channeled back into the creature of mud.
“What are you doing?” asked Anom, amazed.
“I’m just reminding them that they still have unfinished business,” Inem answered mysteriously.
“These fish…
they carry remnants of my breath.
That’s why their meat won’t rot in your hands.
I purify what they took from this dirty water.”
With Inem, this work had turned into a kind of purification ritual.
Inem seemed able to heal the fish from the inside, and Anom released them from their heavy shield-like skin so their clean meat could benefit others.
“Don’t you feel like you’re losing out?” asked Anom again.
“A goddess before, now taking care of fish in a drain?”
Inem looked at Anom, and this time she smiled slightly.
“Before, hands for gods, now for fish.
Same thing, Anom.
As long as something heals, as long as someone is helped, no work is too low.”
Anom looked at his own hands, now covered in slime and water.
But hearing Inem’s words, he felt as if the concrete pillars above his head had turned into palace columns.
“Your name is starting to be mentioned at the market, Inem,” said Anom, remembering what Mpok Lela had said that morning about people starting to ask about the origin of his Plecostomus.
“But they don’t mention your name.
They mention mine.”
Inem nodded slowly.
“That’s good.
Let them know your name.
I prefer to stay as a shadow behind these pillars.
The world isn’t ready to see what I do, but they are very ready to consume what you bring.”
Anom went back to skinning, Inem touched and purified.
The pile of white fillet meat in their plastic bucket grew higher and higher, shining like a pile of pearls in the middle of the darkness under the toll road.
Meanwhile, the Inem kept stroking the fish scales with her magical fingers.
Every touch gave new life to the meat that would become their livelihood.
“Same thing, both healing,” Inem whispered again, as if answering Anom’s question that hadn’t yet been spoken.