The cart’s handles fit Tan Ah Kow’s palms the way his father’s tools had—worn smooth where hands pressed. He’d oiled them last night while his eldest son swept the workshop floor. The buffalo stood patient in her traces. The camphor-wood cabinet in the cart was his best work this month: dovetailed corners, brass hinges from the Javanese metalsmith, the wood rubbed until it caught light.
Tuesday. Market day. The harbor would be full by seven.
Tan checked the ropes, tested each knot. His son appeared in the doorway, barefoot.
“Beh khì chhut-chhī?“
“Before the Dutch buyers arrive.” He switched to Malay. “Open the workshop at eight. If Lim Ah Seng comes for his altar table, tell him Thursday.”
His son nodded, solemn with the responsibility.
Tan clicked his tongue. The buffalo leaned into her harness. The cart wheels found the stone of Gang Pinggir.
Smoke rose from kitchen fires. Tan smelled ginger, shrimp paste, burnt sugar. Mrs. Lim sat outside her provisions shop, grinding something in her stone mortar. Her movements stopped when she saw him.
She said something in Hokkien—too quiet to hear. Tan kept walking.
“Tan Ah Kow.” Mrs. Lim’s voice, louder now, in Malay. “A man of property should ride, not walk beside his animal like a coolie.”
The Tamil dockworker against the wall looked up, nodded.
Tan stopped. The buffalo stopped. His hands were still on the cart handles, but the wood felt different now.
Mrs. Lim was watching. The dockworker was watching. Two children playing congkak had stopped their game.
He climbed onto the cart, careful not to jostle the cabinet. The buffalo turned her head, one dark eye finding him. He’d never ridden the cart to market before.
But Mrs. Lim was nodding now. The dockworker had returned to his betel nut.
Tan sat on the edge of the cart, feet dangling, hands gripping the side boards. The buffalo started walking. From up here, he could see into windows, could see Mrs. Lim’s face as they passed—approving now.
The lane curved toward Jalan Karet. Tan’s thighs ached from holding himself steady. The cabinet shifted with each bump. He should get down, walk beside the cart, keep one hand on the cabinet.
But Mrs. Lim might still be watching.
“Ayyo, what are you doing?”
Ong Ah Huat stood in front of his cousin’s house, a basket of rattan strips over his shoulder.
“Going to market,” Tan said.
“Riding like a tuan besar while your animal works? The Dutch see you like that, they think you’re lazy. You think they buy furniture from a lazy man?”
The Tamil dockworker had followed them. “He’s right. Show you can work.”
Tan climbed down. His hands found the cart handles again. The buffalo kept walking. He pushed, helping her. The cabinet was safe with him walking.
Ong nodded and continued toward the harbor.
Tan’s hands were sweating. The cart handles felt slick. Jalan Merak opened ahead—wider, busier. Normal traffic, but Tan felt the eyes.
The vegetable seller stopped. She looked at the buffalo, then at Tan, then at the cart.
“Your son should lead the animal. You push the cart, he leads. This is how my husband taught our sons.”
Tan’s son was back at the workshop.
“My son is watching the workshop,” he said.
“Hmm.” The woman’s face said what her mouth didn’t.
She walked on. Tan kept pushing. His palms were burning. The cart was heavier than it should be.
The bridge appeared ahead—Jembatan Mberok, the old wooden span over the canal. The construction noise from the new godown was louder here: thunk-thunk-thunk. Pile-driving. The Dutch were expanding the harbor.
The buffalo’s ears flicked back. She slowed.
Tan pushed harder. They had to cross.
The buffalo stopped.
“Lâi, lâi.” Tan clicked his tongue. The buffalo didn’t move.
A crowd was gathering. Morning traffic backed up: two hand-carts, a bicycle, a woman with a child. The pile-driving continued: thunk-thunk-thunk.
Under the bridge, dogs were fighting. Their snarls rose through the planks.
The buffalo’s nostrils flared. Her head lowered.
“What’s the problem?” A Chinese merchant, well-dressed.
“She won’t cross,” Tan said.
“Hit her. Show her who’s master.”
Tan had never hit the buffalo. She was patient, steady, worth six months of profit.
But the crowd was growing. The merchant was watching. Someone behind him said something in Javanese—the tone was clear. Move.
Tan picked up a small stick. He tapped the buffalo’s flank—not hard.
She shifted her weight but didn’t move forward.
Thunk-thunk-thunk.
“You’re being too gentle,” the merchant said.
A Javanese man pushing a hand-cart called out: “Take the harness off. Lead her across by hand.”
Tan’s hands were shaking as he unbuckled the harness. The buffalo stood free, just her halter rope in his hand. He pulled. She pulled back.
“Tie something over her eyes.”
“No, no. Let her see.”
The pile-driver stopped. In the silence, Tan could hear the canal water lapping, the dogs still fighting, his own breath coming too fast.
Then the pile-driver started again: THUNK-THUNK-THUNK, louder now, faster.
The buffalo’s head came up. Her eyes showed white.
“Just carry her across,” someone said.
Tan turned. A young man, Chinese, someone’s apprentice. “What?”
“Carry her. Get two men, tie her to a pole, carry her across like they do with pigs at slaughter.”
The merchant laughed. “There’s your answer.”
But the Javanese man with the hand-cart was shaking his head. “That’s not—animals panic if you—”
“You have a better idea?” The merchant’s voice had an edge. “We’re all waiting.”
Tan looked at his hands. They were still shaking. He looked at the buffalo. She was trembling too.
He looked at the cart. The cabinet inside, his best work.
He looked at the crowd. Twenty people now, maybe more. All watching. All waiting.
The Javanese vegetable seller pushed through. “Get your son. Bring him here—”
“He doesn’t have time,” the merchant said. “Market closes at two.”
Mrs. Lim’s voice came from somewhere in the crowd: “A man provides for his family.”
Tan’s son. Three more years of school if business stayed good. All of it depending on days like this, on getting the cabinet to market before the Dutch buyers left.
“I’ll help you.” The young apprentice was already looking for a pole. “You get someone else.”
The Javanese man was still shaking his head, but quietly now, stepping back.
Tan found himself nodding. Found his hands untying the rope from the buffalo’s halter, retying it to the pole. Found another man—one of Ong’s cousins—agreeing to help.
The buffalo’s eye found his again. He’d seen that look before, years ago, when his father was dying. Recognition.
“We have to get her off her feet first,” the apprentice said.
They pushed. The buffalo resisted, then stumbled, then was down on her side. Her legs thrashed. Tan’s hands fumbled with the rope, trying to secure her legs to the pole. The rope was rough hemp. It bit into his palms.
The buffalo made a sound he’d never heard from her—high, desperate.
“Lift!” the apprentice said.
They lifted. The pole bent but held. The buffalo’s weight was terrible—not dead weight, but fighting weight. Tan’s hands were slipping. He gripped harder. The rope was cutting into his palms now.
They started across the bridge.
Thunk-thunk-thunk.
The buffalo thrashed. The pole jerked. Tan’s hands lost their grip.
Time became strange. He saw the pole tilt. Saw the apprentice trying to adjust. Saw the buffalo’s body twist. Saw the other man let go. Saw the apprentice let go.
Saw the buffalo fall.
The splash was smaller than he expected. The canal wasn’t deep. But it was deep enough.
The buffalo’s legs were still tied. She couldn’t stand. She couldn’t get her head up. The water was brown with silt, and he couldn’t see her beneath it, could only see the water moving, thrashing, then moving less, then still.
Tan was on the bridge, looking down. His hands were bleeding. The cart was behind him, the cabinet still safe inside it. The crowd was silent.
Sergeant De Vries arrived then, his white uniform bright against the morning. “Wat is hier aan de hand?”
The merchant spoke in Dutch—too fast for Tan to follow. The sergeant nodded, made notes. He looked at Tan.
“Doorlopen!”
Tan understood the tone. He understood that there was no appeal, no explanation that would matter. He understood that the sergeant saw an obstruction, not a tragedy.
His hands found the cart handles. They were sticky with blood. The buffalo’s harness lay on the ground. Someone picked it up, handed it to him.
He pulled the cart himself across the bridge. It was much heavier without the buffalo. The cabinet shifted. He heard something crack inside it—maybe the hinges, maybe one of the dovetails.
The market was open when he arrived. Ong Ah Huat was already at his stall, arranging rattan chairs. He looked at Tan, at the cart, at Tan’s hands.
“Where’s your buffalo?”
“In the canal.”
Ong’s face changed. “Dead?”
Tan nodded.
“Aiyah.” Ong looked away. “That’s bad luck.”
Tan pulled the cart to an empty space near the harbor wall. He opened the cabinet’s doors. The left hinge was cracked. One of the dovetail joints had separated slightly—not broken, but loose, visible.
A Dutch man in a linen suit approached, looked at the cabinet, ran his hand over the wood. He found the loose joint. His finger probed it.
“How much?”
“Twenty guilders.”
The Dutchman shook his head. “Fifteen. The joint is loose.”
Fifteen guilders. Half what the cabinet was worth. A quarter of what the buffalo had cost.
“Fifteen,” Tan heard himself say.
The Dutchman paid. Tan helped him carry the cabinet to a waiting cart. When he came back, his cart was empty.
He sat down on the harbor wall. His hands were still bleeding. He should wrap them. He should go home. He should tell his wife, tell his son.
He should have—
What? Not taken the buffalo to market? But he had to sell. Not listened to Mrs. Lim? But she was his neighbor, his customer’s mother. Not listened to Ong? But Ong knew the Dutch buyers. Not listened to the vegetable seller? But she was older, experienced.
Not carried the buffalo across the bridge?
But everyone had agreed. Everyone had said it was the only way. Everyone had been waiting, watching, expecting him to do something.
He’d tried to do what everyone said. He’d tried to please them all. And now he had nothing. No buffalo. No cabinet worth selling. Fifteen guilders that wouldn’t cover a month’s rice.
His hands were shaking again. He pressed them against the stone wall, trying to make them stop. But the stone was rough, and it hurt, and they kept shaking anyway.
The market noise continued around him—vendors calling prices, buyers bargaining, the normal sounds of people doing business. As if nothing had happened. As if a buffalo hadn’t drowned. As if a man’s hands weren’t bleeding.
Tan sat there until the blood dried on his palms. Then he stood, gripped the cart handles—the wood sticky now, the familiar grip gone—and pulled the empty cart home.
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