he doesn’t understand, no matter how often he watches it. If he closes his eyes, he can still see the figure of the old doctor, writing in one of his notebooks. He’s been ill, vomiting in the bathroom downstairs though when Ren goes to check on him, there’s nothing to clean.
“I cleaned up myself,” Dr. MacFarlane says. His eyes are bloodshot and when Ren serves him a simple supper of leftover curry, he grimaces. “Take it away. I can’t eat meat.”
Later, Ren finds him staring at the endless rain streaming off the veranda roof. “Ren,” he says without turning around, “what do you think of me?”
No one has ever asked Ren that question before. At least, no grown-up. Auntie Kwan was always busy telling him what to do, not asking for his opinion, and for an instant, he misses her desperately. Tongue-tied, he gazes at Dr. MacFarlane’s nose, a trick that the old man taught him for when he feels too shy to meet someone in the eyes.
“You are a good person,” Ren says at last. He wonders whether Dr. MacFarlane is concerned about the rumors that he’s losing his mind, or if he’s even aware of them.
His master studies him for so long that Ren wants to look away, at his own small bare feet, or out of the window, but that’s impolite. Instead, he forces his gaze higher until he looks Dr. MacFarlane in the eye. And to his surprise, the old man looks sad.
“Let me show you something,” he says, walking with his stiff, familiar gait to the rolltop desk where he keeps all his papers. The keys are kept on a ring in Dr. MacFarlane’s pocket. After his death, the lawyer will go through every drawer but not before asking Ren, suspiciously, if he has touched anything.
Dr. MacFarlane takes out a photograph. There are two Malay men in the picture, bare-chested and squatting against a wall. The expressions on their faces are friendly, yet wary. The one on the right has what looks like a cord or a string tied around his upper arm.
“Which one of them is like me?” says the old man.
Ren wrinkles his brow in concentration. Is his master having another fit? But no, he’s calm and lucid. Then Ren sees it.
“The groove on his upper lip.” He points at the man on the right. “He doesn’t have one and neither do you.”
Dr. MacFarlane looks pleased, as proud as when Ren put the wireless radio back together after taking it apart.
“Yes,” he says. “That’s called a philtrum.” The troubled expression returns to his face.
“Who is this man?” asks Ren.
“I took this photograph five years ago, when I was traveling with a friend. We were in a little hamlet called Ulu Aring, and this chap,” he taps the man on the right, “was the local pawang.” Dr. MacFarlane speaks quickly, fluently in a way that he hasn’t in many days.
“Was that when you lost your finger?” As long as Ren has known Dr. MacFarlane, he’s been missing the last finger on his left hand.
“Yes, the same trip. When he saw me he was very excited.” The old doctor places one finger above his upper lip. “He put his hand right here, and called me abang.”
Older brother.
“Why?”
“He said this missing upper lip groove is the sign of a weretiger.”
Ren is silent, wondering if the old man is joking but there’s no hint of it in his pale eyes. There are stories about tiger-men, who come from the jungle to snatch children and gobble up chickens. He studies the black-and-white picture.
“Did you see him change into a tiger?”
“No, though other people said they had. When the mood struck, he’d say, ‘I’m going to walk,’ and enter the jungle, burning incense and blowing it through his fist until his skin changed and his fur and tail appeared. Then he’d hunt for days until he’d eaten his fill.
“When he was done, he’d squat down and say, ‘I’m going home,’ and turn back into a man. In his man-shape, he’d vomit up the undigested bones, feathers, and hair of everything he had eaten.”
Ren suddenly recalls Dr. MacFarlane’s vomiting fit and the retching, gagging sounds that came from behind the closed door.
“The other sign of a weretiger,” Dr. MacFarlane continues, “is a deformed paw. Whether it’s a front or hind leg, there’s always one that’s defective. When I lost my finger on that trip, the pawang told me to bury it with me so I could be made whole again—a