Lorenzo Velasquez came knocking at our door the summer of 1972, the year I turned fifteen.  He was a tall man, reed thin, with an unruly thatch of snow-white hair, a thin mustache, and a set of tiny hooded eyes as dark as an Indian night.  A hideous ropy scar ran the length of his forehead just beneath the hairline.  I wondered what savagery had caused this frightening injury.
     My father, Jemadar Singh, invited him in and gave him refreshments.  Afterward, papa pointed at me and said, "Lorenzo, This is my son, Rajiv."
     Lorenzo gracefully dipped a biscuit in the milk.  "It is a pleasure to meet you both.  I inquired in the village.  You are well thought of, Sahib Singh."
     Felicitations exhausted, papa finally asked, "How may I assist you?"
     Lorenzo leaned back in his chair and sighed.  "I was ready to enter the forest, when my unmentionable vehicle broke down."  He frowned.  "A calamity.  I know little of mechanics.  Some men kindly helped me push the traitor to where it now stands in your yard."
     Papa and I got up, walked to the window, and peered out. The vehicle in question was a battered olive-green Jeep of World War II vintage.  The gleam from a rifle barrel in the back seat caught the rays of the blistering sun.  Papa sighed and returned to his seat.
     Lorenzo promptly resumed his tale, speaking slowly and distinctly.  "Anyway, Sahib Singh, I was on my way to head off this man-eater when--"
     "What!" I gasped, rudely interrupting our guest.
     Papa stiffened.  "Man-eater?  Did you say, man-eater?"
     Lorenzo rubbed his scar.  "Why yes.  An old tigress.  Very large and very smart, I'm afraid.  Has missing toes on her right fore.  You haven't heard?"
     Papa blanched.  "Uh--no.  We have no wireless here and little motor traffic comes this way.  Please, go on, sir.  Tell us of this tiger."
     Lorenzo calmly sipped his milk.  "She killed and ate a child forty miles east of here a month ago.  Her fifth kill.  By the time I got there, she'd moved on--in this direction.  I thought you would have been warned by the district headquarters."
     Papa shook his head.  "No.  They never tell us anything.  And we are unarmed here.  We are just farmers.  Jarwidah has no guns."  He spread his arms in a helpless gesture.
     Lorenzo murmured, "I'm sorry.  If she gets this far, I'm afraid there will be much sorrow in your village."  Papa nodded nervously, being well aware that since the Indian government had outlawed the hunting of tigers, the striped beasts’ numbers were in sharp ascendancy.  Pushed out by younger, stronger tigers, the old ones sometimes took up the man-eater's trade.  Of this fact the government often seemed blissfully unaware.
     Lorenzo frowned.  "I'm sorry if I've alarmed you. Perhaps she will turn south.  In any event, I have my permit, and, if I am to kill her, I must get my Jeep repaired.  Can you help me?"
     Papa was deeply absorbed in thought and took some time to reply.  When he did, he spoke hopefully.  "Look, I doubt we can find anybody to fix your Jeep at present.  There are no mechanics here.  But if you would wait for the tiger to arrive, then kill it, I could make it worth your while."
     Lorenzo examined the offer, then shrugged.  "I'm sorry, but I must earn a living."  He mopped his brow with a filthy red bandana.  Pointing at his scar he went on.  "I got this from a leopard, a man-eater.  It's a dangerous business.  But it pays well.  No disrespect, but how can I make money sitting about this sleepy village?"
     Papa thought about it.  "I will speak to the elders.  We can pay you and provide room and board.  Perhaps, after the tiger is killed, we can find someone to fix your Jeep."
     Lorenzo sighed.  "I am a captive, then.”  He mulled it over.  “But sir, the tiger may never come.  In that event, your money would be wasted."
     "True Lorenzo, however, if the tiger does come then you will earn your money.  Is that not so?"
     Lorenzo rubbed his scar and nodded.  Something moved behind his glance then, something ambivalent but quickly squelched.
     "Then stay," said papa.  "Stay and kill this cursed tiger.  Believe me, we know how to show our gratitude."
     "I'll think it over," murmured Lorenzo.  "You have someplace for me to sojourn the night?"
     Papa jumped up eagerly.  "Sure, sure.  We have a spare room.  I am a widower.  There's just Rajiv and me.  You can board with us as long as you like.
     Papa continued.  "Tomorrow morning I will go to the village and talk to the elders.  We will make it worth your while."
     That night, after dinner, Senor Lorenzo lovingly displayed his burnished weapon.  "This is a Westley Richards .470, a tiger gun if there ever was one."  The double-barreled weapon gleamed with oil, its walnut stock scratched and gouged by years of use.  Lorenzo let me handle it, bemused by my excitement.  Later, he carried in a brown duffle bag loaded with gear and deposited it in the back bedroom.  It had a peculiar odor, one I couldn't quite place.
     The next day, after meeting with the villagers, Papa came home with a community sponsored offer of cash, board, and room.
     Lorenzo found it acceptable, and papa was most relieved.
     You see, papa is a born pessimist.  In his mind the tiger would come.  No question.
     Lorenzo later met with the villagers and warned them not to venture into the nearby forest.  This caused some grumbling among the leaves and wood gatherers, but it subsided quickly as nobody really wanted to run into a hungry man-eater.
     Every other day Lorenzo hoisted the rifle on his bony shoulders, filled his ancient pipe with sweet-smelling tobacco, and limped off into the forested hills.  He usually returned by nightfall.  We always awaited his return with bated breath, marveling at his dauntless bravery.
     And as time passed, Lorenzo and I became close friends.  He spent most of his free time with me.  We herded cattle and milked goats together, fed the chickens, fished, swam, and discussed Lorenzo's many adventures.
     He was quite the raconteur, speaking eloquently of the great man-eaters and of his hero, Edward James Corbett, the master hunter, who killed the Champawat man-eater, a tigress which had slaughtered over 430 people before Corbett gunned her down.  For thirty-two years, Corbett hunted India's most celebrated man-killers.  Corbett had had fertile fields to plow too.  At one time, man-eating tigers and leopards were killing 800 people a year in my country.
     Anyway, we'd often lie around chatting, enjoying the view of the distant Himalayas from the shade of our ancient mango tree while watching "Long Shanks" (a ten foot cobra who lived under the chicken coop) sun herself or prey on rats in the garden behind the house.  Long Shanks was sort of the family pet.  We put up with her because she killed her weight in rodents every year.  We had to be careful, though, where we stepped after dark.
     Because of my friendship with Lorenzo, I spent little time with the boys in the village.  Lorenzo energized my life.  Not only could he mesmerize me with a story, but he had a surprisingly serene and generous nature.
Still, after a few weeks passed with no tiger sighted, some reprobates in the village began to whine about their shared payments to Lorenzo for services not rendered.  Yes, I'm ashamed to say that there was a good deal of sniping going on.  So much so, that papa was finally forced to brace Lorenzo with this delicate matter.
     Papa sheepishly laid out the village complaint, then sat back to await Lorenzo's cries of righteous indignation.  Instead, Lorenzo composed himself, motioned papa near him, and whispered softly, "Sahib, the tiger is here!  I have, not two days ago, seen her sign in the forest.  Have you not wondered why I stepped-up my patrols?"
      Papa sat still in his chair.  Trembling  "But--why have you said nothing?"
      "I didn't want to alarm you or your people.  I spotted her pug marks near a stream some four miles from here.  She's moving in this direction.  She left tracks in the mud.  Her right fore has two toes missing.  It's the man-eater I told you about."
      There was a chill silence.  Papa was perspiring. "Uh, I--I see."  Lorenzo looked doubtful.  "I have heard the talk.  That I am taking money by false pretenses.  Perhaps even you do not believe me.  I will take Rajiv--my brave young companion--to the spot and show him."
      Papa waved away the suggestion.  "It is not necessary--"
      "But I insist."
      My father protested again, clearly frightened for my safety.  “But the boy.”
      Lorenzo smiled and raised his hand for silence.  "No!  Do not worry.  The boy will be perfectly safe."
      I was quivering with a combination of anxiety and anticipation.  Great things could come of this.  What if we were to kill the tigress?  My stock in Jarwidah would be elevated beyond measure.  And Indira, a certain young girl of the village, might look more favorably upon me.  Early the next day, then, I accompanied Lorenzo into the forest.  We moved silently along a well beaten path.  For while tigers have a poor sense of smell, they have acute hearing and excellent short-range vision.  And they can remove the unwary person’s head in a matter of seconds.
      A half-hour later we stood on the banks of a slow moving stream and examined the pug marks of a very large tiger.  She had jumped over the stream, leaving a perfect footprint in the mud.  This print Lorenzo pointed out with an emphatic gesture.  "Note the missing digits," he murmured, shaking his head.
      "I see."  I quickly looked around, feeling a sharply heightened sense of fear.
    “Steady. Rajiv.  Don't worry.  Tigers are nocturnal.  She's probably sleeping many miles from here.  I just wanted you to see that Sher Khan is here."
     "I am so ashamed of my people," I cried in mortification.
     Lorenzo put his arms around my shoulders and squeezed.  "Shush.  They frighten easily.  They are not great hunters like we.  Come, let's go home."
      He was humoring me, but I loved it.  "Great hunters," indeed.  My chest swelled with pride.  We arrived in the village that afternoon.  I told of the tiger's pug mark and enjoyed the immediate change in the attitudes of the doubters.
      Thereafter Lorenzo went into the forest daily, only to return each evening with disappointment written on his face.  He told of how he had repeatedly staked out a goat but without luck.  Those nights he would carefully place the gun in the corner of the room and slouch down in a chair, softly cursing his luck.  I felt sorry for him.  We all did.
      Then, one afternoon, while Lorenzo and I watched Long Shanks devour a very large rat, a young man from the village rushed up the hill and practically threw himself at Lorenzo's feet.  "The tiger, the tiger," he cried, his eyes bulging with sheer terror.  "In the town!"
      Lorenzo immediately leaped to his feet.  I had never seen him quite so animated.  "What?  Tell me where she is, exactly?"
      I grabbed his arm.  "I want to go with you."
      Lorenzo, all excitement, ignored me, listening intently as the villager described seeing a huge golden red tiger cross the road about a half mile east of town.  It had been effortlessly carrying something ghastly in it's jaws.  The dust in the road had been peppered with bloodstains.
      I clutched at Lorenzo's shirt.  "Please, take me along."
      He looked down at me and frowned, his dark eyes moving swiftly from left to right.  He had the look of an eagle.  Abruptly, he pushed me out of the way with a irritated grunt and started down the hill for the hut, absently stepping over the prostrate form of Long Shanks.  Fortunately the sated cobra never budged.
      I ran after Lorenzo, determined to share the hunt with him.  We were a team.  I was not afraid of Sher Khan.  I had every confidence in my courageous friend.
      When I got to the hut, I went inside and found Lorenzo feverishly rummaging through his smelly duffle bag.  He came up with something black and shiny, muttered for me to shutter the windows, then quickly rushed out of the house.
      For some reason, a boy's curiosity perhaps, I peeked into the open duffle bag.  Something stunk in there.  I reached in and pulled out the severed foot of a tiger--one with two digits missing!  The foot was smeared with dried mud.  I sat down, bewildered and unwilling to believe my eyes. The grotesque extremity explained many things, worst of which was Lorenzo's betrayal of my papa's trust.
    There was no man-eating tiger!
     Lorenzo had been deceitful.  My hero was a charlatan, milking the village for weeks of cash and free room and board.  And now that a real tiger had come Lorenzo was running away.  "The coward.  Oh, the coward!"
I cried aloud in frustration and disappointment.
      The coughing sound of an automobile engine roused me.  Lorenzo had gotten the Jeep running.  I rushed outside.  The Jeep was idling unevenly, bluish smoke curling from beneath the hood.  I noticed too that Lorenzo was frantically loading his gear.  The black thing he'd carried outside was something that had made the engine run again.  Another trick.
      "You can't do this," I shouted.  "You can't leave now."
      "Just watch me," he snapped.
      "Lorenzo, that tiger might kill somebody.  A child."
      Lorenzo stopped for a moment and looked at me.  "No.  I'm sure it's no man-eater.  Few of them are."
      "But it could be a man-eater.  You don't know."
      He said patiently.  "Listen to me, Rajiv.  I understand how you must feel.  I am deeply sorry.  I know I deceived you.  I am no  hunter."
      "B--but, your wound?  The leopard."
      He frowned.  "No leopard.  I got this," he said, pointing to his scar, "when I was seven-years-old.  A bull shark.  In the Zambezi river.  I've never hunted anything in my life."
      "But--"
      He took me by the shoulders.  "Try to understand.  Life in India is hard for a crippled old Spaniard with no skills and this unsightly face.  I was hungry, could find no work. One day I came across a hunting camp.  It was unattended, so I stole the rifles, pawned several, bought this Jeep, and took on the hunter's persona.  It's how I make my living. There are many small mountain villages such as yours and many frightened people.
      "How can you do this?"
      He shrugged.  "One must eat."
      I was furious with him.  "Listen, what if I tell my father the truth about you?"
      "I'll be gone by then."
      I leapt into the Jeep and snatched the keys from the ignition.  It shuddered into silence.  Lorenzo gaped at me in astonishment.  "Give me those keys, Rajiv."
      "When you kill Sher Khan."
      Scowling, he limped toward me in a threatening manner. "The keys, or--"
  "Or what?  You'll beat me?"  I stood my ground, frightened but determined, sure that he would not harm me.  Inside this flawed man was a kindly nature.  I was sure of it.
      Lorenzo hesitated then suddenly deflated.  He shook his head and began to sob.  "I could never hurt you, Rajiv.  I--I love you as a son.  I have been so happy here."
      "Then kill this tiger."
      "I'm afraid.  I have no experience."
      "Neither do I.  But help me do this thing.  I will build a machan (hunting platform) and stake a belled goat.  You and I will wait for Sher Khan together.  You will kill it with your gun."
      Lorenzo was undecided, his thoughts turned inward.  "If I tell the men about this," I warned, "you would have better luck with the tiger, I think."
      Lorenzo nodded grimly and reluctantly began unloading the jeep.  "I will draw plans for the machan," he said.  "We will find the tiger and attempt to kill it.  More likely, it will kill us."  He shivered violently, and I could see he was terribly afraid.
      And  so was I.  I knew much about tigers.  They weigh over 400 pounds, measure 9 and ½ feet from nose to tail, eat 4 ½ tons of meat a year, and will kill anything from a frog to a wild buffalo.  No animal alive can withstand their charge.

      That night the small tethered goat bleated softly, the bell around its neck sending soft chimes into the dark woods.  Lorenzo and I tried to maintain a little dignity, scrunched as we were in the tiny wooden platform we'd built ten feet up in an oak tree.
      All night the grass rustled, frogs croaked, animals coughed in the distance, and the hours drifted by unremarkably--that is until just after dawn.  Abruptly, the goat began moving fitfully about.  Seconds later, the thick brush near the animal parted and out stepped a magnificent tiger, its sleek hide dappled with dark stripes, its yellow eyes darting around the clearing.
     I was terrified that it would see us.  In three bounds it could have easily had us both in its powerful jaws.  I heard Lorenzo breathing quicken like a steam engine.  He nervously raised the rifle and sighted along the barrels.  But just as he drew down on the tiger, quaking so hard that he shook the gun, the magnificent predator charged at the goat.  At that very instant Lorenzo fired both barrels!
      The tiger vanished in the great cloud of dust thrown up by the shot.  For a brief moment I thought Lorenzo had killed the beast.  But when the dust cleared, the tiger was gone.  Lorenzo had missed!
      Next morning a bunch of us cautiously combed the forest, finding no trace of the beast.  And after a few weeks, it was assumed that the creature had permanently left the area, no doubt shell-shocked by its near death experience. Fortunately, we never saw it again.

      Today, many years later, I'm sitting here in the deep shade of the mango, near the spot where Lorenzo and I used to while away the hours in pleasant reverie and conversation.  I can never come up here without thinking of Lorenzo.  After the tiger fiasco, he packed his bag, took his shiny gun, and left our village, amidst a crescendo of well-wishing and happy celebration.  He was the village hero, but all entreaties for him to stay on were ignored.
      I believe the reason Lorenzo left town was because he wasn't quite sure if I would keep my mouth shut about his treachery.  And that is sad, because I truly loved the man and never would have breathed a word of it.  I also know he was deeply ashamed.  It was hard on his pride.  Then last year, papa received a letter, addressed to me, from the headman of a small village in Nepal.  It seems Lorenzo had given up the ghost there.  Age and infirmity having finally caught up with him, he'd written this letter on his death bed.

     Dear Rajiv,
  I will face no more man-eaters in this world.  The tiger of all eternity now has me in his claws.  It is but a matter of days.  But I am not afraid, for I am old and sick and therefore ready to be devoured.  Do not grieve for me.
     I pray daily for your forgiveness and understanding.  You were a such a good boy, so brave and noble, and I know you must certainly have become a fine man.  I wanted you to know that after I left your village I sold my gun at the next town and thereafter sought honest labor.  Following your example, I led a blameless life up to this day.
     Yours,

     Lorenzo

"Lorenzo's Tiger" first appeared in Innisfree magazine

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