Child of All Nations

Child of All Nations

Pramoedya Ananta Toer

Child Of All Nations

Pramoedya Ananta Toer Translated from the Indonesian by Max Lane Penguin Books

Penguin Books Child of All Nations

Pramoedya Ananta Toer was born on the island of Java in 1925. He was imprisoned first by the Dutch from 1947 to 1949 for his role in the Indonesian revolution, then by the Indonesian government as a political prisoner. Many of his works have been written while in prison, including the Buru Quartet (This Earth of Mankind, Child of All Nations, Footsteps, and House of Glass) which was conceived in stories the author told to other prisoners during his confinement on Buru Island from 1969 to 1979.

Pramoedya is the author of thirty works of fiction and nonfiction. His novels have been translated into twenty languages. He received the Pen Freedom-to-write Award in 1988 and the Ramon Magsaysay Award in 1995. He is currently under city arrest in Jakarta where his books are banned and selling them a crime punishable by imprisonment.

Max Lane was second secretary in the Australian embassy in Jakarta until recalled in 1981 because of his translation of Pramoedya's Buru Quartet.

Child Of All Nations Pramoedya Ananta Toer

Translated from the Indonesian by Max Lane ♡ Penguin Books

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Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London W.C.2.R 0.R.L, England First published in Australia by Penguin Books Australia Ltd 1984 First published in the United States of America by William Morrow and Company, Inc. 1993 Reprinted by arrangement with William Morrow and Company, Inc. Published in Penguin Books (U.S.A.) 1996 23 25 27 31 30 28 26 24 22 Copyright © Pramoedya Ananta Toer, 1979 English translation copyright © Max Lane, 1991 All rights reserved Originally published in Indonesian by Hasta Mitra Publishing House, Jakarta, 1980.

the Library of Congress Has Catalogued the Hardcover as Follows: Toer, Pramoedya Ananta, 1925 Anak semua bangsa. English] Child of all nations/Pramoedya Ananta Toer; translated from the Indonesian by Max Lane.

Translation of: Anak semua bangsa. I.S.B.N: 978-1-101-61532-4 esia History 1798 to 1942 Fiction. I. 1. Indonesia History 1798 to 1942 Fiction. I. Title.

P.L.5089.T.8.A.25 1993 899'.22132—dc20 93 to 3516 Printed in the United States of America Set in Bembo Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Translator's Note

To preserve something of the rich texture of cultures, languages, forms of address, dialects, beliefs, and milieus of the Indies, I have retained numerous Malay, Javanese, and Dutch terms.

These are italicized the first time they appear. If explanations or translations are required, they can be found in the Glossary at the back of this book. The Glossary also contains some English words or acronyms and certain identifications that may not be familiar to the English-speaking reader. The explanations given have been kept to the minimum. A richly rewarding project that awaits scholars of Indonesian history is the preparation of a detailed guide to all the historical and cultural material contained in Pramoedya's tetralogy.

The production of such a complex translation is not easy. The contributions made by Susanna Rodell and Jackie Yowell at Penguin Australia to the editing of this manuscript have been very important.

I am grateful to Professor A. H. Johns of the Australian National University for providing facilities, including an office, while I was working on this translation.

I would like to thank, once again, Anna Nurfia for her tolerance of the time taken up by this project. I must also thank those concerned in Indonesia for their continuing friendship, which has been a cable that has kept the energy of my commitment to Indonesia flowing here in Australia.

Introduction

“We fought back, Child, as well and as honorably as possible.”

These were the words that ended Pramoedya Ananta Toer's novel This Earth of Mankind, the first in a quartet of which Child of All Nations is the second. This Earth of Mankind was indeed a story of people fighting back, of resisting the worst of colonial oppression and greed.

It was also a gripping story of remarkable characters caught in the cultural whirlpool that was the Dutch East Indies of the 1890s. Because Pramoedya's vision extends far beyond parochial politics to reach for more universal human concerns, it is a bitter irony that, in 1965, he was arrested by Suharto's junta, and his entire library, including research and notes assembled over many years, were burned to ashes. He was jailed, without trial, for fourteen years. Denied access to writing materials, he kept his literary vision alive by recounting his stories to other prisoners. Only in 1975 was he permitted the facilities to commit his novels from memory to paper.

A year after his release from Buru Island concentration camp in 1979, This Earth of Mankind was published in Jakarta as Bumi Manusia. Soon after, its sequel Anak Semua Bangsa (Child of All Nations) was published. Both novels became best-sellers in Indonesia, as reviewers hailed Pramoedya's return to the nation's literary life. However, in May 1981 both books were banned in Indonesia. The government accused the books of surreptitiously spreading “Marxism-Leninism”—surreptitious because, they claimed, the author's great literary dexterity made it impossible to identify actual examples of this “Marxism-Leninism.” Later in the year students from the University of Indonesia were arrested and expelled when they invited Pramoedya to speak on campus. One of the publishers of Pramoedya's books, Yusuf Isak, was imprisoned for over three months, without being charged. Pramoedya himself and Hasyim Rahmam, Yusuf's partner in the publishing house Hasta Mitra, were repeatedly interrogated.

In This Earth of Mankind Minke is an eighteen-year-old Javanese, the first to be educated in an exclusive Dutch school in Surabaya. Striving for his own personal and intellectual development, he is drawn into the more immediate and dramatic struggle that faces his formidable native mentor, and then mother-in-law, Nyai Ontosoroh. Sold as a girl to a wealthy Dutch businessman by her ambitious father, Nyai had become acquainted with the true character of the colonial system early in life, and fought back at it with vengeance. After her corrupt and insane Dutch master is murdered, she rises to restore and control his business, Boerderij Buitenzorg. Minke, on the other hand, has been spoiled by the system. He has received an elite Dutch education. He is attracted to Dutch ways by the apparent superiority of the West, such as the modern achievements of electricity, machines, photographs, and books.

Minke's struggle, sparked off by his association with Nyai, becomes essentially against himself—against his integration into, and identification with, the colonialists' civilization. Nyai Ontosoroh is self-taught; she has never been to an elite Dutch school, nor any school, except that of life itself. Yet she proves herself again and again to be capable of both defending her principles and self-respect, and imparting to Minke knowledge and understanding that he would never learn at school. Nyai Ontosoroh's dignity is evidence of an alternative and superior civilization developed in spite of rather than because of Dutch colonial authority.

The separate struggles—Minke's against his illusions about Western values, and Nyai's against their brutalizing effects—are complicated and intensified by their coming together. They are brought together by Nyai's Eurasian daughter, Annelies, whom Minke loves and marries. Minke moves into Nyai's mansion to live with Annelies. Annelies's deep and unqualified love for Minke is an attempt to resolve her own complex contradictions. Annelies is not legally Nyai's daughter and, after Annelies's Dutch father dies, she “reverts” to being the property of his far-off Dutch relatives. Nyai and Minke's personal struggles are put aside as they fight (unsuccessfully) to protect Annelies from being taken to the Netherlands.

Minke's eyes are opened by these experiences. He is amazed by the cold, legalistic language of the court. In the colonialists' eyes, Natives are just items on inventories. Minke and Nyai become one force as they rally all their energies and friends to resist the plans of the dead Dutchman's relatives. Minke's outstanding talents as a writer are tested to the full: His passionate challenges to the inhumanity of colonial “justice” are circulated far and wide.

The use of language in this period was an important indicator of a person's social caste. Dutch, of course, was the language of the governing caste; Javanese, the Native language of the Javanese; and Madurese, the Native language of Madura (an island off Java). Malay was the language of interracial, or rather intercaste communication (as many elite Javanese could speak Dutch), as well as the language of many Eurasians. Indeed, in situations where the caste order needed to be emphasized, Natives were forbidden to use Dutch. Not only did colonialism install Dutch as the supreme caste language of Java, it helped reinforce and even exaggerate caste distinctions in the Native languages themselves, especially Javanese. The Javanese language already operated on at least three different levels, each used according to the person to whom one was speaking. This feudal stratification was given extra force as Javanese feudal notables, devoid of real political power in the face of the Dutch cannon and Dutch capital, channelled their oppressive energies into culture, something Dutch cannon and capital were, in turn, frequently ready to buttress. The egalitarian and colloquial Javanese that was used in the palaces and royal houses of Java actually died out in this period. Only the masses of peasants and other toilers retained such an egalitarian Javanese.

The terms Native, Mixed-Blood and Pure are capitalized. This is because they do not simply identify the racial origin of the persons involved, but manifest how, even in everyday life, racial caste dominated all of Netherlands Indies society. These categories were eventually given legal status. Thus racism was institutionalized as a caste system by colonialism.

Among the many complex interrelated themes of political, cultural, and social life in the Indies, Pramoedya describes the emergence of a bourgeois from a feudal culture; the demands for rights of indigenous language and culture; the divisions amongst the colonialists over their treatment of the Natives; the intervention of Dutch colonial capitalism into the Javanese countryside; and the humiliation of the Javanese nobility in their dependence on Dutch officialdom. Most importantly, he writes of the development of those energies that would galvanize the Indonesian people into finally standing up and throwing off the yoke of colonial domination.

These themes are brought to life by the richly drawn characters in This Earth of Mankind, many of whom reappear in Child of All Nations: Nyai, Minke, and Annelies; Ah Tjong, the corrupt Chinese brothel owner who murders Herman Mellema, Nyai's Dutch master; Robert Mellema, his and Nyai's son, who imitates his father's Pure-blood Dutchness and hates Natives; Robert Suurhof, Minke's Dutch rival from school; Magda Peters, the liberal Dutch teacher expelled from the Indies; Jean Marais, the one-legged Frenchman, painter, and veteran of the colonial war in Aceh; Mr. de la Croix, the liberal but interfering Dutch district officer, and his two socially conscious daughters, Miriam and Sarah; Maiko, the Japanese prostitute used by both father and son Mellema; Robert Jan Dapperste (alias Panji Darman), the Native boy adopted by a Dutch preacher; Maarten Nijman, the editor of the powerful Dutch newspaper published in the Indies, the Soerabaiaasch Nieuws; Kommer, the exuberant Eurasian editor of a popular Malay-language newspaper; Dr. Martinet, a representative of Dutch science and education at its best; Darsam, the tough fighter and right-hand man of Nyai; Mr. D——. L——, the cowed Dutch accountant; the mysterious Fatso, shadowing Minke everywhere; Minke's authoritarian, aristocratic father and his gentle, Javanese-educated mother; as well as a host of minor characters.

While This Earth of Mankind saw the losing battle to defend Annelies brought to a climax, the struggles of Nyai and Minke continue in Child of All Nations. The fate of Nyai's “first child,” the business, is not resolved. But more fundamental is the fate of Minke. With Annelies seemingly lost, how will he deal with the lessons he learned in the course of that battle? His environment has been completely changed; no longer is it limited to his school, his old boarding house, Nyai's home, and the gallery of Jean Marais, with whom he is a partner in a furniture business. Minke has been drawn into the vortex of colonial society and must now confront all its harsh implications.

In Child of All Nations, Minke has become part of the vanguard that would change the face of the East Indies. Like iron on the anvil, he is beaten into shape by the forces of change operating in the early twentieth century. It is not only a time of change for the Indies: China is awakening—a phenomenon Minke has to face personally; Japan is aroused and will soon defeat Russia in war; the Filipino people have created, even if only briefly, the first Asian republic. At home he is confronted by things he had never dreamed of. Most importantly, he becomes involved with representatives of his own people: the peasants. There are certainly new lessons to learn and greater challenges to come in Child of All Nations. —Max Lane

Table of Contents

1

Annelies had set sail. Her going was as a young branch wrenched apart from the plant that nourished it. This parting was a turning point in my life. My youth was over, a youth beautifully full of hopes and dreams. It would never return.

The sun was moving slowly, crawling like a snail, inch by inch across the heavens. Slowly, slowly—not caring whether the distance it had traversed would ever be traversed again.

The clouds hung thinly across the sky, unwilling to release even a single spray of drizzle. The atmosphere was gray, as though the world had lost its multitude of colors.

The old people teach us through their legends that there is a mighty god called Batara Kala. They say it is he who makes all things move further and further from their starting point, inexorably, towards some unknown final destination. A human blind to the future, I could do no more than hope to know. We never even really understand what we have already lived through.

People say that before humankind stands only distance. And its limit is the horizon. As the distance is crossed, the horizon moves away. There is no romance so strong that it could tame and hold them—the eternal distance and the horizon.

Batara Kala had pushed Annelies across many distances and had pushed me across others. The further apart we were forced, the clearer it became that no one could tell what the future held. The distance opening out before me made me understand she was not just a fragile doll. A woman who can love so deeply is not a doll. Perhaps, also, she was the only woman whose love for me was pure. And the further Batara Kala pulled us apart, the more I came to feel that truly, I loved her.

And love, like every other object and situation, has its shadow. And love's shadow is called pain. There is nothing without its shadow except light itself.

Whether light or shadow, nothing can escape being pushed along by Batara Kala. No one can return to his starting point. Maybe this mighty god is the one whom the Dutch call the Teeth of Time. He makes the sharp blunt, and the blunt sharp; the small are made big and the big made small. All are pushed on towards that horizon, while it recedes eternally beyond our reach, pushed on towards annihilation. And it is that annihilation that in turn brings rebirth.

I don't really know whether this beginning to my notes is fitting or not. At the very least everything must have a beginning. And this is the beginning I have written.

Mama and I hadn't been allowed out of the house for three days nor permitted to receive guests.

A district police head rode up on his horse. I didn't leave my room. It was Mama who met him, and hardly a moment passed before the shouting started in Malay. Mama called me out of my room. The two of them stood facing each other.

She pointed to a piece of paper on the table: “Minke, the police chief here says we were never under arrest. Yet we haven't been able to leave the house for over a week now.” “Yes,” the policeman explained, “you now are being officially notified: The two inhabitants of this house are free to come and go.” “The police chief here thinks that now, with this written notice, our period of detention never existed.”

These last few days Mama's nerves had been so on edge that she was ready to fight with anyone at all, especially a servant of the state. I was reluctant to join in the fight. I could see that Mama, her face fiery red, was ready to erupt with rage.

The police chief jumped on his horse and made his escape. “Why didn't you say something?” Mama rebuked me. “Afraid?” Her voice subsided into a low rumble. “They need us to be afraid, Child, no matter how badly we Natives are treated.” “Ah, everything is all over now anyway, Ma.” “Indeed, all over. We were defeated, but still they have violated a principle. They have detained us illegally. Don't ever think that you can defend something, especially justice, if you don't care about principles, no matter how trifling an issue.”

So she began to lecture me about principles—a lesson I had never learned at school, had never read about in books, magazines, or newspapers. My heart was not yet calm enough to receive such new teachings, no matter how beautiful and good. Yet still I listened. “Look, no matter how rich you are,” she began, and I listened half-heartedly, “you must resist anyone who takes what is yours, even if it's only a clump of soil below the window. Not because the soil is so very valuable to you. A principle: Taking someone's possession without permission is theft. It is not right; it must be opposed. And in the last few days, it is our very freedom they have robbed us of.” “Yes, Ma,” I answered, hoping that she would end her lecture quickly.

But it wasn't so easy to stop her and, if I hadn't been there, she would probably have delivered it to whoever else was around. “Those who are not faithful to principles become open to evil, to have evil done to them or to do evil themselves.”

Then she seemed to realize that her timing was wrong. “Go out and get some fresh air, child. You've been locked up too long. You look stale.”

I went back into my old room, which I had shared so briefly with Annelies. Yes, I needed to go for a stroll, to get some fresh air. I opened the wardrobe to get out a change of clothes. All of a sudden I remembered Robert Suurhof. There was something of his in this wardrobe: a gold and diamond ring.

Mama had thought it was a very expensive gift for a friend to give as a wedding present. The diamond alone was about two carats. Only somebody who was rich, or who really loved you, would give such a present. Mama's guess was probably right—Robert Suurhof might indeed have given it as a sign of his love. Now that Annelies had gone, the time had come to return this thing to him, to his family. Now it seemed no mere coincidence that Mama had spoken of principles.

After I'd dressed I opened the wardrobe and took out Annelies's metal jewelry box. Robert's ring wasn't there. I checked the drawer again. It was lying unwrapped in a corner. I picked it up and looked at it closely.

I had never taken much notice of women's jewelry. Yet I could still enjoy the stone's pure shining blueness, sparkling within itself, the rays multiplied by its polished walls. Why must I admire this destructive object?

I put back the jewelry box, which I had just opened for the first time. Beside the box was a folder. Inside it was a Bank Escompto bank book, a pile of salary receipts from the business, and two letters from Robert Suurhof. They had never been opened! I fought my desire to open and read them. I had no right, I told myself. She had received those letters before she became my wife.

I rose to leave for my walk, then stood hesitantly at the door. There was something I hadn't done. Yes, of course: I usually read the newspapers before I went for a walk. Who knows how long it had been since I'd opened one? I returned to the desk, sat down, groped through the pile of mail. The desire to read was gone.

Why was I feeling so listless? I forced myself to start on a newspaper. No. I couldn't. I separated the letters from the rest of the mail and went through them one by one: from Mother, from my elder brother, from... Robert Suurhof for Annelies. Anger burned in my heart, my jealousy was awakened. From Sarah de la Croix, from Magda Peters, from Robert Suurhof for...from Miriam de la Croix, from...again from Robert Suurhof for Annelies. I began to sort more quickly.

There were eleven letters from Suurhof. Scalding lava erupted into my heart. Lunatic! Damn him!

I took a letter, tore it open, and read:

Miss Annelies Mellema, Goddess of My Dreams...

I didn't go on. I rushed outside and ordered Marjuki to prepare a buggy. The ring in my pocket weighed me down. I would go and hurl this thing to the ground before his parents. “Quickly, Juki!”

The buggy flew off in the direction of Surabaya.

Neither my thoughts nor my vision would focus. All was blurred, without direction. Then, in the distance, I saw an old school friend, one who had never passed his exams. But even concern for my friends had faded away. Only after he had disappeared from sight did I feel ashamed for having treated a school friend so dishonorably. Perhaps he was one who had been sympathetic to us in our troubles.

Near Kranggan I saw Victor Roomers strolling happily along, kicking the roadside pebbles. This Pure European fellow graduate didn't seem to have anything to do that afternoon. He was wearing white shorts, white shirt, white shoes; as usual, he looked quite fresh. After three years of studying with him, I had grown to like him. He was a lover of athletics; he had a sportsmanlike attitude towards the world and never turned a sour face to it. And most important of all, he held no racial prejudices. “Hello, Vic!” I ordered Marjuki to pull the buggy over to the side of the road. I jumped down and shook hands. Victor invited me into a roadside drinks stall.

He began quickly: “Forgive me, Minke, for not being able to help you in your difficulties. I came once to see you at Wonokromo, but the Field Police broke up any groups that collected around or near your fence. Some of our other friends also tried to visit you, but in vain. No one could help, Minke, especially not someone like me. I asked Papa about it all once. It had never happened before, he said, a Native daring to oppose a decision of the white court. All our friends regretted not being able to ease your suffering. We truly share your sorrow in all this, Minke.” “Thank you, Vic.” “Where are you off to? You look so pale.” “Would you like to come along?” “Very much, but I can't just now. Where are you going?” “I've got a bit of business to fix up at Robert Suurhof's house.” “A waste of time. What do you want to go there for?” “There is something—” “Robert's vanished. Who knows where he's gone,” Vic said casually, as if nothing of note had happened. “Vanished?” Somehow it didn't feel right to use that word about a fellow graduate. “Yes. So you haven't been reading the newspapers. Robert's name wasn't mentioned. It was Ezekiel's name that was printed.” “You're right, I haven't been reading the papers. You mean the Ezekiel who owns the jewelry shop?” “Who else? Surely there is only one Ezekiel left in this world, eh?”

The diamond ring jumped in my pocket, piercing my thighs and demanding to be taken to Ezekiel's shop. So Suurhof had stolen it. “That's the kind of person our friend Robert Suurhof is,” Vic said with disappointment. “He had big ambitions. He wanted to master the world in a week. In the end…” “Oh, so now it's in the end, Vic. Robert stole from Ezekiel's.” “If I were you, Minke, perhaps I wouldn't be reading newspapers either. You've been through too much lately.” “Forget it, Vic. Tell me about Robert.”

The diamond ring started jabbing and stabbing me in the thigh again. Imagine what would happen if a policeman stopped and frisked me; it would mean another trial. “It's just like any other crime story. It always starts with someone's great ambition to overwhelm the world in a week. Pity the Suurhofs, Mr. and Mrs. Suurhof. Both were already so gaunt, perhaps they're even worse now. Two of their children gave up school altogether just so Robert can graduate from H.B.S. Straight after graduating, he turns into a bandit, and a cheap bandit at that.” “What did he take from Ezekiel's?” “Not even that! If he'd robbed Ezekiel's shop, at least he'd have had some style. At least he would have had to fight several neighborhood guards or speak with a golden tongue and outwit them. All he did was rob a Chinese grave, shaming his school friends, his school, and his teachers. It's lucky he's disappeared and escaped arrest. Who knows where he is now?” “I know where he is. But keep on with the story.” “The story's quite simple. Remember how he used to carry on about becoming a lawyer? His parents would never have been able to pay for it, especially as he'd have had to finish another five years of H.B.S. in Holland. His parents could never pay his boat fare, let alone his school fees there. They're both ill; they've used up all their money for medicines. Ah! That Robert! He wanted to be rich, to have a wife of unrivaled beauty, to be number-one man, a lawyer—and all in a week. Straight after graduating he goes and knocks down the watchman at the Chinese cemetery, hitting him from behind and stealing from one of the graves.”

So that's the story, I thought. Damned bejeweled ring, that's how you've come to be in my pocket! If somehow the police knew where to find you now.... I became a bit nervous. I asked: “How was the crime discovered?” “You're going pale, Minke. Are you ill?”

I shook my head. “He sold the booty to Ezekiel. It was discovered by the dead man's family. They checked all the jewelry shops and found one of their things at Ezekiel's; then they reported it.”

Vic then told the rest of the story; it was easy to guess. The crime was exposed; the police searched Suurhof's house. Robert had vanished. Nothing was found. No one knew where Robert had gone, not even his parents. “You say you know where he is, Minke?” “Well, at least where he's been sending his letters from.” “Letters? To you?” he asked, amazed. His eyes questioned mine. Then, abruptly, he turned the conversation: “There's no point, Minke. There's no point complaining to his parents about those letters. You'll only cause more grief.”

I became suspicious. How embarrassing if he knew about Suurhof's letters to my wife! How humiliated I would be as a husband! The ring itched in my pocket. Perhaps this cursed ring was the cause of all our misfortune.

Victor could tell I was trying to hide something. “No, Minke, don't go there. That scoundrel Robert is capable of anything.”

I turned the conversation: “What are you doing these days, Vic?” “Just as you see me now: in and out of the villages. You know what I am? Don't laugh. An agent for the shipping company that takes pilgrims to Mecca. Being a sinyo like this, it's hard to get my customers' trust. I intend to get some other kind of work, but…ah well. Hey, Minke, do you know how many pilgrims will travel to Mecca from South Africa this year? Five hundred! From an English colony! If I could just get five hundred people here in Surabaya…”

He too wanted to avoid talk about Robert's letters. He must have known they were addressed to my wife. So it was no secret. How did people know? “Say, Minke, would you like to swap jobs with me?” “Thanks, Vic. But I must get on now.”

I left Victor Roomers in the stall. I left with an angry heart—hot, jealous, furious.

The buggy raced off towards Peneleh. From others I met along the way I got the same story and the same advice: Stay away from the Suurhofs. One even said, straight out: “Don't take any notice if you get letters from him. He's crazy.”

So all my school friends knew about the letters to Annelies. I was the only one who didn't. How blind I had been.

Willem Vos, who was working in a timber yard, even went so far as to say: “He made it clear that he was out to get you, Minke. Be careful. He hinted to some people at the graduation party that day that he would get you. But people like him would never dare say such things openly.”

I deliberately avoided the girls from school. Now that they had graduated they were no longer school friends but maidens awaiting proposals from one official or another—Pure European if possible. I would only disturb their waiting.

Late in the day, another friend pointed out: “Ezekiel has been kept under detention, yet Suurhof's name has never even been mentioned. Why? Because Suurhof has European status. Ezekiel is a Jew from Baghdad, with only Oriental status.”

At five-thirty in the afternoon, my buggy entered the Suurhofs' front compound. My eyes went straight for the mango tree, where the family liked to sit and enjoy the afternoon air. Yes, there they were, sitting on the wooden benches around the tree trunk, talking amongst themselves.

I had not been to this house since the incident between Robert and me when I first met Annelies at Wonokromo. When they saw my fine buggy enter the yard they all stood up and stared in amazement. I recognized Mr. and Mrs. Suurhof straight away. Both were thin and wasted from consumption. Of their twelve children, only Robert, the eldest, was missing As soon as I alighted, Mrs. Suurhof called out in her Indo accent, “Aiai, Nyo, it looks like you're a big tuan now!” “Good afternoon, Mr. Suurhof, Mrs. Suurhof, children,” I greeted them, thinking at that moment that my friends were right: I shouldn't have come.

The whole family looked thin and sickly. What was the use of showing them this cursed ring? And what was the use in protesting about Robert's letters? Pent-up anger, fury, a hot and jealous heart—all were slowly pushed aside by pity.

The children stood up and moved aside to make a place for me. They sat surrounding me in a horseshoe shape. “Ah! The newspapers were full indeed of reports about you, Sinyo,” Mr. Suurhof began. “Yes, but things have eased now. It's all over.” “It's a great pity that it ended so unhappy, Nyo,” Mrs. Suurhof added. “What can be done?” and the conversation ended.

But our quiet reflections were interrupted. One of the children attacked with the news: “Brother Robert has gone. He's not here anymore. Didn't he say good-bye to you?” On seeing me shake my head he went on, “He's gone to the Netherlands.” “Who said he's gone to the Netherlands?” Mr. Suurhof quickly took over the conversation. “He went away just before Sinyo got married. You must know, as a child he was never at ease with himself. A young person, an H.B.S. graduate, restless, forgetful, never wanting to stay at home. Sinyo knows what he was like.” Old Suurhof threw a hard look towards his children. It seemed he meant to forbid them to talk about their elder brother.

But one of the younger children didn't understand the signals. He came up to me and passed on some proud news: “Yes, Bang, in the afternoon Bang Robert would work and in the morning go to H.B.S.” “That's very fine. He was a very advanced pupil. What kind of work did he do?” I asked. “He never used to say, Bang.” “He might be restless,” Mrs. Suurhof took over from her children, “but we never believed there was evil in his heart. Yes, sometimes he was naughty, uncontrolled, Nyo—you know what he's like from school, yes?—but a wicked boy? No.”

The smaller child wasn't going to be ignored. He went on with his report with great enthusiasm: “He sent us some money, Bang! Fifteen guilders!” “What are you talking about, Wim?” his mother reprimanded. “Yes, it's true, Bang,” another little brother confirmed. “Mama used the money for clothes for us children.”

"It's true, Bang, they're being made up now," Wim added. “Children!” Mr. Suurhof cut in. He wanted to say something else, but his coughing stopped him. “It's true, Bang, it's true.” Some of the other children supported their brothers. “That wasn't from Robert. You heard wrong. The money is from your father's pension,” Mrs. Suurhof scolded. “Back pay for a wage increase due five months ago, Nyo,” Mr. Suurhof explained, then tried to divert the conversation: “So Sinyo works for Nyai now?” “Yes, just helping around the place, sir, that's all.” “How does it pay?” “Well enough, sir.” “Yes, it's a big company; the salary would be big too.” “Bang, Bang,” Wim charged in head first again. “Bang Robert has been adopted by a wealthy merchant. He's living in a three-storied building in Heerengracht.” “Where's Heerengracht?” I asked. “Ah, fancy listening to children's talk. Don't take any notice, Nyo.”

The eldest child—who hadn't been able to continue his schooling—observed the conversation with big suspicious eyes. He listened to each of his parents' words, and to what I said, but paid no heed to his younger brothers and sisters. “Robert said”—another child came forward—“after he becomes a lawyer, he's going to open an office in Surabaya.” “So he's living in Heerengracht now?” I repeated my question. “It's not true, Nyo. Even my husband and I don't know where he is now,” Mrs. Suurhof contradicted her children.

Husband and wife were trying to avoid each other's eyes, while doing their utmost to silence their children.

The eldest, the one who hadn't even graduated from primary school, didn't relax his attention for a moment. “Go on, over there, fix some drinks for Nyo Minke.”

The eldest moved slowly away from the mango tree, his head bowed. “Come on! All out the back! Check that all the dishes have been washed: You too!” she ordered the smallest. They all obeyed. “I don't know where those children learned to fantasize about their brother,” said Mr. Suurhof, frowning at his wife. “Yes, that's children for you, Nyo,” Mrs. Suurhof added. “If Sinyo has many children later on, you'll find out. They eat out your heart. Don't pay them any attention now, Nyo.”

It was pathetic to see how these two parents tried to defend their family's good name by refusing to admit anything to the world, and by painting for their other children a flawless picture of their eldest son.

And what of the ring in my pocket? What must I do with it? Must it smolder forever in my pocket and my thoughts? These people will be even more tormented if I return it and tell them it came from Robert. Look: Both of them are waiting to see what will come out of my mouth next, like the accused awaiting the judge's verdict.

Seeing I was hesitating, Mr. Suurhof began: “You must know yourself, Nyo, what Robert was like. I myself don't know what he wants, Nyo. He has never given any thought to the troubles he causes his parents.” “Tuan, where is Robert now?” “No one knows, Nyo.” “I know he set sail for Europe on board an English ship,” I said.

Both husband and wife looked at me with hopeless eyes. The approach of one of the younger children, crying, from the direction of the house, saved them. The child complained: “Someone's stamped on my foot, Ma.” “Nah! Nyo, this is how it is. Fighting every day. If God permits, you'll end up thin and dried up! Even when they're grown, there's no guarantee they'll be of any use to you,” Mrs. Suurhof advised. She spoke to the child and led him back into the house.

Now, left with only Mr. Suurhof's eyes on me, I at last felt more at ease Yet still there was not enough resolve in my heart to act on my intentions. The ring began to burn again in my pocket. The gaunt man before me was still trying to guess the reason for my visit. “So how is your wife, Sinyo?”

His question gave me an opening: “I am here precisely on my wife's behalf, Tuan.” “Ha? She had no business with us.”

Pity returned to erode my resolve. No, you must not be weak! Do what you must, I encouraged myself.

Tuan Suurhof searched my face. “Yes, Tuan,” and I reached down into my trouser pocket. But once again I became unsure and couldn't do it. “My wife, yes, Tuan, my wife…” “We've never had anything to do with Sinyo's wife.” Old Suurhof was beginning to feel boxed in. “…is returning something that she received from Tuan's family, the Suurhof family.” “Returning something? We've never lent anything to your wife.” He was becoming more and more guarded.

Before I lost my nerve again I reached into my pocket and drew out the handkerchief in which the ring was wrapped. I put it on the table, explaining, “Yes, Tuan, only a small object. On the day we were married, my wife received this gift from Robert. We felt it was too valuable. We wanted to return it." “We never agreed with Robert about any present.”

I opened the handkerchief. The diamond glistened in the bright twilight, lying there like an eyeball gouged from its socket.

Tuan Suurhof was abruptly seized by a coughing fit, turning his face away and bending over. His right cheek quivered uncontrollably. He waved the object away: “Wrap it up again, Nyo. I know for certain that Robert had gone before Sinyo was married. Robert, and even we ourselves, have never owned anything like that.” “It is indeed a very expensive ring, Tuan, perhaps worth more than four hundred guilders, but it did come from Robert.” “No, Sinyo is mistaken. It couldn't have been from him. He had long gone.” “Yes, he was indeed gone, Tuan, but not before our marriage. Even now he is sending letters.” “How is that possible, Nyo? He doesn't even write to us. They must be fake.” “No, Tuan, I know his handwriting well. So what about the ring?” “No, Nyo, Robert never owned a ring like that. Put it back in your pocket, before anyone sees it,” he said nervously. “Robert himself put this ring on my wife's finger. I thought that if we gave it back to you, you could use it for something.” “No, Nyo, I am happy enough as I am, a clerk in the post office.” “But we don't want it,” I persisted. “Neither do we, Nyo. Indeed we don't have any right to it.”

The haggard man's eyes darted everywhere, even behind himself, steadfastly refusing to look at the ring on the table.

"If that is the case, let me take my leave of you." I stood up.

He too stood up. I walked away but he jumped up and blocked my path. He pleaded: “Take the thing back, Nyo. Don't be angry with me. Don't make things even more difficult for us.” He held my hand, pleading. “It's up to you, Tuan; you can throw it away. You can burn it.” “Don't, Nyo. I don't even dare touch it.”

I kept walking away. He tugged at me to stop me from going. “Why are you afraid? It's Robert's. If you don't like it, then keep it and give it back to him when he returns.” “Don't, Nyo, don't cause us more trouble, Nyo. Sinyo knows how many children we have.” His tugs grew stronger.

I stopped, unsure. Indeed I had no right to make trouble for him and his family. They had already suffered enough because of Robert. Victor Roomers was right after all. I shouldn't be adding to their troubles. Mama's teachings about principles were being tested. But it wouldn't be right to go on with this.

I allowed myself to be pulled back, and sat again under the mango tree. I listened to his pleas: “Take it back, Nyo,” he said, pointing with his chin to the ring, which still lay on the handkerchief.

I wrapped up the ring and put it back into my pocket. For the second time, I took my leave. He seemed relieved. All of a sudden, he asked: "Where to now, Nyo?" “To hand this ring over to the district police officer, Tuan.” “God, Nyo, is there no other way?” “No, Tuan,” I answered firmly. “If that's what Sinyo wants.” He paused momentarily, then didn't go on. He escorted me back to the buggy. Before climbing aboard, I felt I had to ask his pardon: “I'm sorry, Tuan. There is nothing else I can do.”

The buggy took me to the district police chief's office. Along the way I couldn't help but marvel at the presence of the police in this world. In troubles such as these, they appear as a kind of godfather—able to solve almost any problem. The civilized world could not continue without them. People say they began as groups of private individuals in Spain, hired to protect the wealthy and powerful from criminals and from the poor. Later they were taken over by governments. As in other places, the police had not been around long in the Indies, only for the last few decades. Imagine if criminal cases had still been in the hands of the officers of the Dutch East Indies Company. There would be even more trouble before I could get rid of this ring.

The district police officer received me politely, listened to my story, took the ring, and examined it. He seemed to know what he was doing. It was not fake, he said, and was about two carats, but he called someone else in to examine it more closely.

He handed me a receipt to sign which gave details of the ring's diamond-carat value, its gold-carat value, and weight. “Can you get witnesses that this was a gift from Robert Suurhof?”

He took down the names I gave. “Do you know where Suurhof is now?” “I do know, Tuan, from his letters.” “Can we borrow those letters?” he asked politely. “No? Very well. If you have no objections, could you give us his address?” “His actual address isn't written there, Tuan. But the stamps on the envelope were postmarked Amsterdam Post Office.” “Good. Then let us borrow the envelopes. The more the better.” “Just the envelopes?” “If you have no objections, Tuan. Otherwise, please just write out a declaration giving the details.”

I wrote out the declaration he asked for.

On the way home I felt freed from the disturbances caused by that accursed object, as though freed from some thorn stuck in my throat. “Only rich people like going to the police, Young Master,” Marjuki suddenly said. “Little people like me are afraid. If I weren't your driver, I swear I'd never have entered that yard, Young Master.” “Yes, Juki,” I answered. Indeed they had no need of the police. They had little interest in the security of their wealth, selves, and name; in fact, they owned nothing. These thoughts, emerging so suddenly, aroused feelings of sympathy for them—those who had nothing, who had no need of the services of the police. To them a ring, especially a two-carat one, was like a legend from the heavens, not something of this earth. What need did they have of the police?

On arriving home, I went straight to my room. Once inside, I began to relax. The wardrobe no longer housed any accursed object. The police would do their job and search out Robert in the Netherlands. The Suurhofs would have to understand; their son would have to accept the consequences of his actions.

If I had not acted, perhaps those old people and their children would still go on living in a fantasy world forever. It would only hurt them all in the end. And me? I had been able to resolve quite a difficult problem, to balance pity and justice—and still ensure triumph of principle.

And more than that: I had overcome my own weakness of heart, overcome out-of-place sentimentality. I saw all this as a personal victory.

2

It was none other than Mama who said: A name can change a hundred times a day, but the object itself stays the same. The bureaucrats and aristocrats of Java, my people, liked to give themselves wonderful names as adornments to impress everything and everyone around them, including themselves, with the beauty of these names. Shakespeare, that English dramatist, never knew the powerful men of Java who liked to wax lyrical with names, to ensconce their positions and offices in the security of names. A clerk likes to use the name Sastra, meaning “of letters,” so Sastradiwirya will mean a clerk who is good and firm of will. A bureaucrat priyayi in charge of irrigation will strengthen his standing with the name Tirta, meaning water, so Tirtanta will mean an official who administers irrigation.

What's in a name? People called me Minke. Perhaps it was indeed a mispronunciation of the word monkey. But it is a name, and it will still make me respond if I hear it called out.

Is it true that a name cannot change the subject of a thing? Was Shakespeare right? For the time being we'll have to reject that theory. Take, for example, Robert Jan Dapperste, the Native child who was adopted by the preacher Dapperste. His body was thin and weak. He always needed protection and support. Every day he was the object of insults; he was called de Lafste, the most cowardly. The more people he came to know, the more he became the object of insults and laughter. Because of a name, just a name, he developed into a shy, introverted person, full of resentment and cunning.

Yet he was loyal to people who helped him and protected him, who didn't insult or torment him. He ran away from his adoptive parents because of that name too. Now he had obtained a determination of the governor- general of the Netherlands Indies. He had a new name: Panji Darman. And he himself had indeed changed. Imagine: Only three weeks after obtaining his new name, he had already become happy, free of the name Dapperste, free of any burden, with his good characteristics unchanged. And he turned out to be a very courageous person.

While still so young, two years younger than I, he was ready to carry out Mama's order to escort Annelies to the Netherlands or wherever else she might be taken.

I will not say much about him. It will be enough if I show you his letters. They are in the order in which they were written.

I write this letter on board a ship heading for Betawi, on the Java Sea, this calm and windless day. Mama and my good Minke, this is the first time I have sailed on a ship. Even so I have had no chance to dwell on my own feelings.

Before boarding the ship, my carriage waited at the edge of the road, waiting for the carriage that was bringing Madame Annelies. I saw several other people sitting along the side of the road also waiting to see Annelies pass. It seems that newspaper reports about Madame Annelies being taken away from Mama and Minke and being sent back to the Netherlands had spread by word of mouth, and had reached right down into the villages. There were many people who felt they must come and express their sympathy by standing for hours along the side of the street.

Then there appeared a military carriage escorted by a troop of Marechausee in other carriages. That particular carriage was closed. In there was Madame Annelies. She must have been there. I ordered Marjuki to follow them after the troop escort had passed by. I couldn't help but watch the faces of those who were standing along the road. They were all disappointed that they couldn't see inside the carriage. Many of the older women, Natives, were wiping away their precious tears with handkerchiefs or the corners of their clothing.

The closer we came to Tanjung Perak harbor, the bigger were the crowds along the road. In some places people threw stones at the Marechausee. Even some little children showed their sympathy with catapults and small slings. I could not but be moved by all this. They were enveloped in a sense of justice—a sense of justice that had been outraged. It was as if Madame Annelies had become one of them, a member of their own families.

I had never seen so many people come together to express their sympathy and solidarity for another person.

The Marechausee rode on, ignoring the flying stones. But some soldiers were actually hit and bleeding. They rode on as if nothing had happened. How resolved were their hearts in carrying out their evil orders! I worried, worried very much: It mustn't happen that any of these stones hit Madame Annelies's carriage. But no, neither her carriage nor its driver became targets.

The closer we came to Perak, the greater the number of people waiting along the road. And now they weren't just throwing stones, they were shouting out too: “Infidels! Infidels! Thieves!”

About two thousand feet from the harbor, across a road hemmed in on either side by mangrove trees, a string of Madurese buffalo carts were lined up, blocking the way. The carriages of Marechausee stopped, as did Madame Annelies's. My heart pounded anxiously as I watched the incident from a distance. Would there be another fight? “Oh no! It's terrible, Young Master,” said Marjuki, “Miss Annelies is in that carriage.”

It was indeed a tense moment, and neither of us could do anything. The Marechausee were all jumping down from their carriages, blowing on their whistles. They charged the Madurese buffalo-cart drivers. The fight was over quickly. The Marechausee were quickly in control of the situation. The now driverless buffalo carts were pushed aside; many tumbled over into deep channels along the side of the road. Injured cattle and damaged carts filled the channels.

I'm not really sure whether all this is the proper subject of my letters to you. Marjuki must have told it all to you already. My intention is to let you know just how many people came to express their sympathy in their own way, perhaps in a way that is unknown in Europe. But maybe it too is a European way, if we remember how people expressed their anger against Louis the Sixteenth in France.

Madame Annelies's carriage now went straight on to the harbor without stopping at customs. We arrived not long after. When I went into customs, I suddenly realized: Mama and Minke were not accompanying Annelies. You must have been forbidden from doing so, I thought. And because of that thought, a great, deep anger arose within me: Mama and Minke weren't even allowed to come with her to the ship. And these Dutchmen professed themselves the servants of Christ in the Indies. My feelings were outraged by this. Christ would never have become involved in an abomination such as this. Mama, Minke, let alone Madame Annelies, had never slapped anybody's cheek, but now you were being forced to put forward your right cheek, I thought. Those Dutchmen were not following the Christianity I was taught, yet your own behavior had been Christian enough.

Perhaps it is also because of that great anger that I am able to write such a long letter as this. Forgive me, Minke, if this letter is not well put together, because, of course, I cannot write as you can. I write this because of my responsibility to report to you both everything that you should know.

I waited on the wharf as the skiff took Madame Annelies out to the ship. My turn to be taken hadn't yet arrived. Forgive me for not being able to keep close to Madame Annelies. But I could see from a distance that she was being watched over by a European woman dressed in white, perhaps a nurse.

Even as I boarded the ship, I heard someone discussing the decision of the White court, saying that it was not very wise or just and was too harsh, and that the court had treated Mama's family as if they were criminals. I pretended I knew nothing about it so I could get to hear more. But, a pity, the talk went no further than that.

I saw several Marechausee disembark from the ship. And with that I judged that the incident was over.

Two hours later, the ship blew its steam whistle and departed.

Through the efforts of the shipping agent, I have been given the cabin next to Madame Annelies's. But from the beginning, she has never used it. It appears that she is in a special room under the care of the ship's doctor. I have tried to get close to her: She might feel I am a friend, or at least an acquaintance. But she is never to be seen.

I don't know exactly where she is being kept. And I don't yet dare ask about her; being afraid that such inquiries may give away my true purpose. Forgive my stupidity and clumsiness.

But I am still trying to find out which is her room. Don't be disappointed, Mama and Minke, if this is all I am able to tell you now. I will write again soon, and please pray that my efforts might bear fruit, just as we all hope.

My unbounded respects, Panji Darman Several days later, eight days to be exact, his second letter arrived. This time it was postmarked Medan.

It was only when the ship entered Singapore harbor that I got to see Madame Annelies. She was in a white gown and was escorted by the nurse. She was brought up on deck so she could have a look at Singapore. But it was clear she wasn't really taking any notice of anything at all. I guessed from the first that it was actually the nurse who wanted to get a look at Singapore, not Madame Annelies. It was as if she had lost interest in everything.

I quickly moved closer to her, pretending not to know her. She was not looking at Singapore at all. Her head was bowed down as if to watch the waves playing against the side of the ship. But it was clear she wasn't paying attention to anything really. Her hair was neatly combed, and from where I stood I could smell perfume.

Her face was very pale. The nurse never let go of Madame's waist, a sign that she was in a very weak state.

A few score passengers went ashore to have a look around Singapore. Before disembarking they all had to stop and take a look at Madame Annelies. Those who intended to get their view of Singapore from the ship's deck felt, just like me, that they must seek a place close to her. Their feeling of pity and compassion showed on their faces, but no one spoke, except here and there somebody might whisper.

Madame Annelies's paleness was most evident in her lips, and she took no notice of anybody's stares.

I tried to get as close as possible without arousing suspicion. I was going to try to let her know that she wasn't alone on her journey to the Netherlands. But it seemed she paid no heed to either sound or voice. I spoke out my name as loudly as possible to an old Chinaman who, in fact, did not at all wish for my company: Jan Dapperste alias Panji Darman.

The old Chinaman was quite surprised at my attentions, but Annelies still didn't seem to care about anything going on around her. She didn't even glance around. She just kept on with her observation of the sea below. It was her nurse who turned around. I couldn't look her in the eye because of a feeling that I was doing something wrong. And the nurse seemed to understand: I had deliberately spoken my name aloud.

She pulled Madame along, leading her off by the hand away from that spot. I didn't dare follow close behind. But then just for a moment, no more than a moment, Madame looked at me; I think she recognized me. But she stayed silent, not showing any special interest.

I followed them from a distance. Annelies was led up and down other stairs with great difficulty and effort until, at last, they went into a cabin that was clearly not a passenger cabin. Perhaps that was her room, perhaps not. There was no name on the door, just a number.

After I discovered this cabin, I began to hang about there. But there was still no sign of Annelies. Perhaps tomorrow or the day after. But her nurse does from time to time come out of the cabin. Perhaps it is the ship's clinic? But I soon rejected that idea, because the clinic clearly isn't there; I know that for sure.

My good Mama and Minke, this is as much as I can report at the moment. Perhaps at our next port of call there will be some further progress which I can report.

Then there was Panji Darman's letter stamped Colombo.

It appears that the nurse did notice me. One day I was summoned by the captain. His letter was addressed to Panji Darman, alias Robert Jan Dapperste. I went to the cabin mentioned in the letter and, indeed, I found the captain there. “You are going to the Netherlands, yes?” I nodded. “You came on board at Surabaya, yes?” I nodded again. “You will continue your schooling there?” “No, I am going on business,” I answered.

"Business. As young as you?" “Yes. I think the younger one starts the better.” “Very good. What will you be trading in?”

"Spices, cinnamon from East Java mainly." “Yes, Europe has a craze for cinnamon at the moment. What is the name of your company? Oh, yes, Speceraria, isn't it?”

The captain just watched me, completely at ease, then asked as if totally disinterested: “You no doubt have heard the name Mellema?” “Everybody in Surabaya has.” “What about Annelies Mellema?” “I saw her with her husband once at the H.B.S. graduation ceremony.”

"Does she know you?" “Perhaps. Her husband did introduce me to her once.” “Don't keep using that word husband. She has no husband yet.” “I know her husband. We graduated together.” “Forget all that, Tuan. Are you willing to help us—that is, if you do know Miss Mellema? Her condition is very pathetic, very sad. Every day she must be forced to eat even porridge or an egg. She must also be forced to take a drink. She no longer wants to care for herself. She has handed herself over to others to do as they wish with her. She has lost all her will. Her beauty moves the heart of all who see her.”

Even though I tried my best to hide my feelings, I still feel my words were too enthusiastic. “What can I do to help?” “She doesn't want to speak at all. If she was willing to talk to someone, her condition might improve. Will you help us? Though I must remind you again that she is not Mrs. but Miss.” “Of course I am willing to help, Captain.” “As long as you remember, she is not Mrs.,” he repeated.

Mama and Minke, Now I will try to tell you in as much detail as possible of my meeting with Madame Annelies. But forgive these inadequate writings of mine. As I said in an earlier letter, I write not because I am good at writing, but in order to carry out my responsibilities.

The captain took me to his cabin where I had earlier seen the nurse take Madame Annelies. He knocked and then entered. I followed behind. Madame Annelies was sitting propped up in bed. Her eyes were closed. The nurse inside greeted the captain with a “Good morning,” and reported on the patient's health. “Has the doctor been in yet?” “Yes, Captain.” “This is Mr. Dapperste.” “Oh, yes, Mr. Dapperste, can you help us? Keep Miss Mellema company? She won't speak to us. We will leave you here with Miss Mellema. Perhaps because she knows you, she will want to talk. We thank you beforehand, Mr. Dapperste,” and she left with the captain.

Madame Annelies just sat there propped up in the bed. Under the bed there was a chamber pot and bottles of water. Everything was tidy, lacking in nothing. The porthole seemed to be kept always half closed. The washbasin and cupboard were both clean. There were no cockroaches to be seen anywhere.

I came up close to Annelies and whispered into her ear: “Mevrouw, Mevrouw Annelies.”

She showed no reaction. I pulled a chair over and, sitting down, I watched her. She looked so thin and weak. I took hold of her arm and I felt how loose and thin her flesh was. I tried to think what to do. I tried to recall everything I had ever heard about her and about how she was looked after when she was ill the other time. After observing her for quite some time, I sat on the edge of the bed. I repeated my earlier whisperings. Still no reaction.

I whispered again: “Mevrouw, Mevrouw, Minke!”

She opened her eyes but still had no desire to look at me. Then I remembered what Mama said once, as she herself had been told by Dr. Martinet: Annelies didn't like white people. I held out my arm under her eyes and called her again. She lifted up her eyes and looked at me.

Mama, Minke, how startled I was to see those eyes without any sparkle in them. How different she had been on that day of the graduation party! How different on her wedding day when I was so busily tidying up all the wedding presents in the wedding room! How great was the torment she had suffered that it could cause the light in her eyes to be put out!

I know Annelies well, and Mama and Minke too. How much she has suffered, Mama and Minke. I know you all as people of noble heart. No, Mama, Minke, I have no regrets at shedding tears for people who are so generous, helpful, noble; and all these are things praised highly in Christianity. Why now are you all suffering this torment, which none of you deserve?

I continued my whispering: “Robert Jan Dapperste alias Panji Darman is here. Mevrouw is not alone.”

Her eyes blinked quickly. How grateful I was to have my efforts answered! She was going to talk. But no. She didn't blink again, her awareness died away, and I heard a long drawn-out breath blown out from her chest. She held my hand. She was going to speak: Madame Annelies moved her lips. But no sound came from her mouth. She nodded weakly.

I also knew that Dr. Martinet had drugged her the other time. As if I were a doctor, I took a sniff of her breath. There was no smell of medicine. She was obviously not being drugged. But her condition was that of someone under sedation: She was half awake, half asleep.

All right, it doesn't matter if there is no response to my whispers. Who knows, she still might be awake. So I explained to her that I had been sent by Mama and Minke to guard her and befriend her on her journey. On hearing the name Minke, her eyes blinked out a flash of light again. But it too lasted only for a moment, then it died away once more.

I had heard about the advice Dr. Martinet had once given to Minke, so I began to carry out that advice. As if I were Minke himself, I began to tell her beautiful and wonderful stories. I didn't know whether she was listening or not. I whispered close into her ears. Ah, even if she wasn't conscious, at least my whisperings would find their way into her dreams. I came so near to her as I whispered that I felt ashamed because I was so intimately close to the wife of a true friend. I shook myself free of those feelings. Forgive me, Minke.

For about an hour I talked and talked; then I realized that she had fallen asleep, really asleep, propped up against the wall. I laid her down on the bed and covered her with a blanket.

To be honest, my dear Mama and Minke, I have not been successful. She is still shutting herself off from the outside world.

Mama and Minke, I promise I will keep on trying, whatever the results. It is God who decides in the end.

The next letter from Panji Darman was postmarked Port Said and it read as follows.

Since leaving Colombo and right up until entering the Red Sea, the weather has been exceedingly hot during the day. I can hardly stand staying in the cabin. And on top of all that, there were the great waves and ocean swell before the entrance to the Bab-el-Mandeb Straits; it has been almost unbearable. The ship's clinic is always full of people. But despite these conditions, Madame Annelies hasn't been affected at all. It is as if she has become immune to the effects of changes in weather, or has already lost her sensitivity to such things.

She was never taken to the clinic. The nurse says that the doctor always visits her cabin. But I never meet him, even though I care for Annelies and keep her company every single day. Perhaps he visits before I come to the cabin.

Mama, Minke, I am caring for and befriending her in appearance only. The reality is not what I hoped for. I still haven't been able to get her to speak. It is as though there is some dense mist that blankets her mind. I don't know whether that mist is the result of medicines or something that has grown from within her. I don't know. Because I have never met the doctor, I have never been able to get an explanation.

The nurse too has never been willing to give an explanation.

Forgive my stupidity.

In that hot weather and during those high seas, Madame Annelies never left her bed. Her health was worsening. Several times I have seen the food spoon-fed into her mouth by the nurse only to stop there, unchewed. I began to worry that the nurse would become cranky with all this. So I have taken over her task. Let her go up on deck to get some fresh air, or do whatever she likes.

Mama, Minke, forgive me, because I don't know what Madame Annelies's religion actually is, even though I know she was married according to Islam. I need to ask your forgiveness because every time I leave her cabin I need to pray at her bedside. I pray for her safety, health, and happiness, then I say good night and return to my own cabin.

I am not in error to do that, am I? I only know Christian teachings and I only know how to pray in the Christian way. I could never bring myself to surrender her at night to that nurse without leaving her with a little prayer.

Every night before I sleep I pray also for Mama and Minke, that you both stay strong and wise.

I am never able to sleep before eleven o'clock. My thoughts do not seem able to get away from Madame Annelies and her withdrawal from the world. Ya, God, Allah, allow me a day when I can meet Annelies again in good health, smiling and talking happily as I have so often seen her in Wonokromo. So far it is only her muteness that I meet.

Even so, I have not lost hope. God will always give me the strength to try to guard and befriend her.

The letter postmarked Amsterdam was the longest.

As time goes on I become more anxious and saddened. Mama, Minke: Madame Annelies's health is deteriorating rapidly. This started happening after we left the Mediterranean Sea and the Straits of Gibraltar. Somewhere near the Bay of Biscay the ship was attacked by a storm. Great waves rolled over, washing forth all over the ship's deck. All the ship's portholes were closed up tight. For the first time, Madame Annelies groaned. Only I was there to befriend her. The floor of the cabin swayed beneath my feet and it felt as if it was going to turn over. The engine's voice trembled as if giving up all hope. I didn't stop vomiting.

In this situation I knelt down beside Madame Annelies's bed, gripping it with one hand, and I prayed that the ship would not sink and that Madame would quickly recover once we had made land and that she would be recovered forever and that she be given the strength to endure the period of her guardianship, only one or two years.

Only twice she groaned; then she gave voice no more.

This storm receded about four hours later. It was then that Madame Annelies started to soil her bed. The nurse only rarely attended to her now. Forgive me, Minke, that I had to care for your wife in such a situation. Christ was leading me in this work. May His love lighten her suffering.

And that was the situation as we entered the Channel. I prayed even more, because that was all I could do, pray and pray. If the hearts and minds of men can accomplish no more, is it not to God that we then call out?

I had such high hopes when the ship entered the 't Ij Canal. I whispered to her: “Mevrouw, we have arrived in the Netherlands, the land of your own ancestors. Awaken now. We will not be tormented by the sea any longer. You can laugh and smile now! Face these new things with courage and in health.”

She still didn't speak, just lay there, rolled over on the bed. “Mevrouw, we've arrived in the Netherlands.”

Ya Allah! Mama, Minke, she opened her eyes. Her hand moved; she seemed to be looking for my hand. “Jan Dapperste is here,” I said to her. “Jan,” she called out weakly for the first time. “Mevrouw, Jan is here.”

Without looking at me, she said weakly: “Be a friend to my husband.” “Of course. He is following on the next ship. You must get well quickly, Mevrouw.”

She didn't speak again.

Then the captain came into the cabin with the nurse. He thanked me and requested me to leave Madame Annelies. I hesitated but I had no choice; it was an order.

All the passengers were ordered to assemble so that their identity papers could be examined, as well as, for those who weren't Netherlands Indies subjects, their health cards and passports. Because I had been in the cabin all this time, I didn't know where these officials had boarded. There were also Marechausee among them.

After the inspection I hurriedly found my suitcase and then took up a position where I could keep an eye on the cabin. Two dock workers stood outside. Without my realizing it, the ship had already docked. A policeman then passed me, accompanied by an old woman dressed all in black. They too were headed towards Annelies's cabin.

Perhaps that was Mrs. Amelia Mellema-Hammers?

Then I heard them talking as they walked past me, frowning seriously: “Why has no one from the Mellema family come to meet her?” “It's enough that I am here with that letter of authority I showed you,” answered the old woman, who, it now turned out, was not Madame Annelies's guardian. “She is seriously ill. You will not be able to take her. She must go straight into a hospital.” “A contagious disease?” “No!” “I will take care of it all in the proper manner.”

They headed for the cabin where I had spent so much time lately. They ordered the dockers to enter the cabin too. Not long afterwards, Annelies was carried out on a stretcher, accompanied by the nurse, Marechausee, the policeman, and the old woman in her black clothes. I trailed behind them as they disembarked.

It was drizzling rain and the cold made its way into my bones.

Seeing me, the nurse said: "You don't have to follow us." “I only want to know which hospital she's being taken to. I would like to visit her.” “This lady,” she spoke again and pointed to the old woman ——“will take her straight to Huizen.”

"If that's the case, then let me help her." “I won't be able to pay you anything,” said the old woman. “I hope for no payment, Mevrouw,” I answered. “I have no money to pay for your train fare,” she said. “I will pay for it myself. You don't need to worry.” “I have no money for food for you either,” she said. “I will buy my own food.” “You can buy your food from me.”

"Good." “Very well. Then let's go.”

We left for the train station in a horse carriage. The old woman got down and went to buy the train tickets. Madame Annelies was left in my care. We all climbed aboard the train. We laid Annelies down on a seat with her head on my lap. Luckily, there weren't many passengers that day.

The woman sat across from me. She didn't speak. I forced myself to speak to her. Her name was Annie Ronkel, a widow. “I already regret taking on this work,” she then said. “If I had known it was going to be like this...” “I don't.”

"Who is paying you?" “God Almighty, Mevrouw.”

Madame Annelies didn't move at all, at least not of her own will. Sometimes the swaying of the train would heave her body a little. She no longer even opened her eyes. She wasn't interested in seeing the Netherlands.

The nurse hadn't stayed with us. The train moved off slowly, as if it hated leaving its stable. “Where are we taking this sick one?” I asked. “According to the agreement, to my own house,” answered the old crow, who still showed no interest in either my name or where I came from. “Agreement with whom, Mevrouw?” “With those who have hired me.” “Mrs. Amelia Mellema-Hammers?” “How did you know that?” “Let's take her to a hospital,” I proposed.

She wouldn't agree. It would mean disobeying her orders and she might lose her job.

It seemed a very long time. My legs had gone to sleep. Madame Annelies showed she was alive only by her breathing. The train stopped at Huizen. We transferred her to a hired horse cart. Only then did I realize that all Annelies had with her was an old suitcase. It was very light, as if it had nothing in it. Were there other things left on board ship? Ah, what meaning did they have, I thought almost in the same second. So I looked upon that lone suitcase as all that came with her from the Indies.

The horse cart left Huizen and made its way straight to a village, B——., a peasant hamlet. The road was rough and rocky and in bad repair.

We carried Annelies upstairs. It was a small room, smelling of new hay. The house itself was a farmer's cottage made from earth and stones with a thatched roof, just like in all the pictures. Its occupants were the old woman herself, her daughter and son-in-law, and their two children, both still very small.

After all this was finished, Mama and Minke, and Annelies lay in an old iron bed, maybe two centuries old, covered in a thick blanket, I fed her some hot milk. She finished half a glass.

After many different approaches, I was finally able to obtain the address of Mrs. Amelia Mellema-Hammers. I returned to Huizen and sent off a telegram telling her of Madame Annelies's severe illness. After that I looked for some accommodation. The innkeeper only wanted me if I paid more than the normal tariff because I wasn't European. Perhaps they equated me with a demon or devil. It was there, in that inn, that I started to think about what I must do next in order to help Madame Annelies. If there was no word from Mellema-Hammers within two days, I would go and see her.

My dear Minke, that event which shook all of Surabaya did not reach the attention of a single person here. There is no concern over Madame Annelies anywhere. Everyone seems busy with their own affairs. So I thought again of Miss Magda Peters, our teacher who was expelled from the Indies. Didn't she once tell us that progress in this age was pioneered by the radicals? I will find Magda Peters and get her help. Sooner or later I will find out her address.

I write this letter at the inn in Huizen. Forgive me, for I have left Madame Annelies now for almost twenty-four hours. As soon as I finish this letter, I will be off to the village again.

May God continue to give strength to Mama and Minke.

Another letter stamped Huizen read like this.

I don't know what I must write under these anxious and worrying circumstances, Mama and Minke. But even so I must write and tell you. I must not make Mama and Minke wait too long. Dear friends, you must be even more worried and anxious than myself.

I have already been to Amsterdam and protested to Mrs. Amelia Mellema-Hammers. Engineer Mellema wasn't to be found at home that day. That woman only hunched her shoulders and then said: "There is no need for you to involve yourself. There is already somebody taking care of the matter."

At that moment I came to understand how one human being could murder another. But Christ still guided me. Nothing happened.

I explained to her that I had been looking after Madame Annelies ever since she set sail from Java. “Are you demanding to be paid?” she asked. “If it was only a matter of being paid, Madame Annelies's husband and mother would be far more able to look after that than you,” I answered, infuriated. “Are you not her guardian? At least you could visit her while she is so ill.”

She told me to leave. I threatened that I would take the whole affair to the liberal press. She became even more fierce and slammed the door shut in my face. I had no formal rights in any of this; I knew that, so I could do nothing else but go away.

Amelia Mellema-Hammers never did come to Huizen, let alone that three-house village. She owned a dairy business, but it wasn't so big as your business in Wonokromo.

I returned to Huizen without being able to get in contact with Speceraria. I was lucky that the old woman looking after Annelies still allowed me to come and visit each day. I made up a flower arrangement and placed it on the bedside table, near Annelies's head.

Madame Annelies herself is no longer conscious of anything. Only God knows what her condition really is at this moment.

Just a few hours after we received this last letter, a telegram arrived.

My Deepest and Sad Condolences on the Passing Away of Madame Annelies. Panji Darman.

And so the tension of all this time, which had utterly destroyed our nerves, reached the moment of explosion.

And Mama looked calm, though of course I knew that inside she would be feeling the same as me. She had lost her daughter, and was soon to lose her business. I had lost my wife.

After reading the telegram she covered her face with both hands. Her cries were stifled by her palms. She groaned and ran upstairs. My head collapsed upon the table as if a sword had cut through my neck. How cheap was life. We will never while away the time talking as we used to. You will never again listen to my stories. Between us there is only a cluster of beautiful memories, and they were all beautiful.

Her smile, the light from her eyes, her voice, her sometimes childlike words—all were now lost forever, to me, Mama, and to the world. Mother, your daughter-in-law is no longer with us. You will have no grandchildren from her. You will never attend their wedding.

I don't know how long my head lay on the table. Rapid footsteps from behind startled me. Mama was standing there, still overcome: “It's as I predicted, Child, they set out to destroy her and for no other reason than to obtain this company. They have murdered her in the manner available and permitted to them.” “Ma—” “The same as Ah Tjong, but more vile, more cruel, more barbaric.” “Ma,” and I could say no more than that. “And there is nowhere we can turn.” “Ma.” “A satanic alliance more evil than Satan himself. Everything has come to pass.” “That a human being could be treated that way, Ma.”

Mama stroked my hair, as if I were her own small child, and as if I were the only person in the world in mourning at that moment. “Ya, Child, this is what they have been doing all along, only now it is our turn to experience it.” She spoke again but as if it had nothing to do with her own grief. “Three years ago neither of us knew the other existed; we had never met. In just a little while we have become friends. Now this grief we shall bear together forever.” “Ma.” “My two children have gone, and this business too will soon go. I do not want to lose my son-in-law too—you, Child.”

Even in my grief I could sense that Mama would now become isolated from everything outside. She would return to being the maiden-girl who was thrown out by her family, sold to the house of Master Mellema. “Child, if I ask you to remain my son...?”

Ah, what is the use of writing about this dark time in our lives? Let me just say that from the arrival of that telegram Mama felt closer to me. And I to her.

Panji Darman's letter following the telegram said his task was over now, so he would come home to the Indies. Mama answered in a telegram that it was best he rested for a while in the Netherlands. If he wanted to continue his studies, she would pay for it.

Panji Darman answered with another telegram. He was a thousand times grateful, but he was not willing to be a burden on someone who was threatened by disaster. Indeed, it was he who should be helping Mama. Anyway, the Netherlands had given him only bad things to remember it by. He would come home quickly.

His letters kept coming.

The newspapers presented all sorts of reports from all over the world. But I saw only Annelies. “For nine months I bore her, then I gave birth to her in pain. I brought her up. I educated her to be a good administrator. I married her to you.... She should now be growing into her full beauty...murdered, dying in the grip of somebody who never knew her, who had never done a single good thing for her, and who only abused her,” Mama moaned during those days.

Finally I marshaled the courage to answer her. I repeated Panji Darman's words. “All we can do is pray, Ma, pray.” “No, Child, these are the deeds of human beings. Planned by the brains of humans, and by the warped hearts of humans. It is to people we must speak our words. God has never sided with the defeated.” “Ma.” “It is to people we must speak.”

I knew that revenge was raging inside her heart. She needed nobody's pity.

And so it was that I too began to feel the fire of revenge.

3

Life went on without Annelies.

I returned to my old activities: reading the papers and certain magazines, books, and letters; writing notes and articles; and helping Mama in the office as well as with the outside work.

All this reading taught me a great deal about myself, about my place in my environment, in the world at large, and in the unrelenting march of time. Looking at myself this way, I felt I was being carried along by the wind, with no place on earth where I could stand secure.

This is the story, put together in my own way:

Eighteen ninety-nine—the closing year of the nineteenth century.

Japan has become increasingly interesting. These people, who arouse such admiration, are achieving more and more amazing things. I read from my notes: The Netherlands and Japan signed a treaty of friendship about half a century ago. One by one the European nations have come to look upon Japan as an Asian people different from the others, exceptional. And about five years ago I read in an article that Japan had entered the arena, not wanting to be left behind by the white nations in dividing up the world. Japan has been taking its share too. She attacked Manchuria, the territory of China. And the Netherlands, and the Netherlands Indies itself, announced official neutrality in that war. Neutral! Neutral towards an ally that is on the attack. I could see in my imagination: a small child, clever and strong, thieving the possessions of an old giant riddled with disease—an old giant, laid out on a stretcher, powerless.

Elsewhere, a war had broken out between Greece and Turkey: The whole civilized world, they said, was watching the Bosporus Straits. Meanwhile, Japan continued to overrun the possessions of the decrepit giant China. The Spanish-American war broke out in the Philippines at the edge of the Indies. Two Dutch frigates sailed back and forth around the waters of Manado Sangi-Talaud on the one hand, and in the waters between Geelvinkbaai and the Mapia Islands on the other, both, no doubt, ready to defend the neutrality of the Indies. So the civilized world then turned its eyes to the Philippines. And Japan was still overrunning the possessions of the decrepit giant China. Victory after victory. Her power swelled; she became more resolute, more self-confident. Amazing Japan!

Three years ago, one history book said, a treaty had been signed between the Netherlands Indies and Japan. In it the Netherlands Indies had claimed the right to look upon Japanese residents of the Indies as having the status of Orientals. That was three years ago. One year after that agreement the Indies government hurriedly prepared a new law that gave the same legal status to Japanese residents as to Europeans.

Now, at the time of my writing, Japanese residents in the Indies have the same status as Europeans.

How proud must the Japanese be. How proud must Maiko be. And why not? They were the only people in all of Asia that had the same status as the white-skinned peoples! I could only sit, mouth agape, in wonderment. What had transformed these people? As a single grain of sand of the great sand-mountains of Asian peoples, I secretly felt some pride too, even though, yes, even though as a Javensee youth I felt far below them. I was a child of a conquered race. The European teaching that I had received had not equipped me to understand Japan, let alone the greatness of Europe.

What I was feeling then was that Europe had obtained its glory from swallowing up the world, and Japan from overrunning China. How strange it was if every glory was obtained only at the cost of the suffering of others. How confused I was, surrounded by the reality of the world. I was overcome by directionless ideas and feelings. Perhaps I was still too young to expect to reach any clear conclusions. Yet it was precisely conclusions that I needed. Conclusions—the mother of a clear and firm stance in life.

The conferring of equal status on the Japanese in these Dutch-conquered islands startled all who heard of it. Japan had left the Arabs, the Chinese, and the Turks behind—flying by themselves up into the heavens to join the ranks of the Europeans, and not just on paper, but in the treatment they received.

People said that on the plantations and in the workshops, the businessmen and foremen now called them tuan. But Maiko certainly marred Japan's good image. It was even being said that the Japanese had the right to be paid the same wage as Pure Europeans for the same work. I didn't know if it was true. The Japanese, it happens, don't like working for employers who aren't Japanese themselves.

Perhaps, in all of the Indies, I am the one and only Native who keeps notes like these. Who else is interested in other peoples? Notes like these bring no respect, let alone any material benefit.

Mama, like the others, was not interested. It is true that she once said there was no point in hiring Japanese if Natives could do the work. Even so, because she had never paid attention to the matter, she was surprised to find several auction papers urging, “Sack all the Japanese coolies! Their labor is too expensive!” In the midst of all these proposals and demands the papers also got an opportunity to advertise the goods they had for auction. Indeed, several of our own workers told how three Japanese had been sacked from a carriage workshop and a bakery. Both businesses were owned by Europeans.

Then the news was announced: The Country of the Rising Sun, of the Meiji Emperor, was appealing to all its people overseas, advising them: Learn to stand on your own feet! Don't just sell your labor to whoever is willing to hire you. Change your status from a coolie to an entrepreneur, no matter how small. You have no capital? Join together, form capital! Learn together! Be diligent in your work.

I felt that appeal was addressed to me too, like a voice from the heavens, just like in the wayang, shadow puppet plays when a god calls out from the heavenly ether above.

The reality, however, was that the colonial newspapers and magazines were savagely and angrily opposed to the new legal reality. They did not want the position of the Japanese equal to that of the Europeans.

And Jean Marais said that those accustomed to enjoying the suffering of the Asian peoples will, of course, never be ready to lose even a small part of the respect that they consider their right, as well as a gift to them from God.

Then there were others who wrote rudely—in auction and advertising papers naturally. Japan, they said, the biggest exporter of prostitutes and cooks in the world, with its new status will be able to ruin the world with its pleasures and its delicious food, bankrupting good families, bringing the disaster of moral collapse, creating chaos in Indies European society. The cities will fill up with red-light areas, with slant-eyed, kimono-wearing misses whose behavior will offend the hearts of civilized European ladies. Will granting equal status to the Japanese mean the acceptance of prostitution? Before it is too late and things have gone too far, would it not be better for this Indies State Decision No. 202 to be reconsidered?

Just imagine, growled my old landlord Telinga, what would become of the world if Europeans had to accept equality with colored peoples, peoples who can in no way be properly considered equals? All sit on the same level? Perhaps it could happen. Stand at the same level? No! All this while our heads have been bowed in obedience to the knives and scissors of Japanese barbers, our stomachs have been caressed by their restaurants, and perhaps even our fertility and potency have been thieved by their prostitutes...as if there aren't enough half-breed Indos in the Indies already!

A fellow graduate angrily gave his ideas on the whole matter. He was well known as a regular patron of the Japanese Gardens. “If things keep on like this, one day that slant-eyed dwarf, with legs shortened by too much sitting cross-legged, will be found everywhere—sitting in our offices where we ourselves should be sitting. How shameful! Would we have to bow first? Sadly, I feel this will happen. But I will refuse to look at even a Chinese officer! Even if they have hundreds of sacks of money!”

Another friend, the son of a former consul to Japan, had something different again to say. It was, perhaps, a rather imperfect repetition of something his father or mother once said: “Japan? But they have been of great service to us, the Dutch. In the battles and wars to conquer the Indies, didn't a great many die for the Dutch East Indies Company, the V.O.C? When we had to defend Batavia from the attacks of Mataram?… Even so, it doesn't seem quite right.”

And Maarten Nijman wrote: “Indeed the concern, unease, and disagreement with this decision to give equal status to Japanese has succeeded in casting a shadow over the hearts of all you colonial gentlemen. There are grounds for your fear, but there is also something strange about it. The great Roman Empire never entertained such feelings, not even towards those peoples it had defeated and then colonized. And in this matter, the Netherlands never defeated and colonized the Japanese. Relations between Japan and the Netherlands have always been without blemish since the beginning of the seventeenth century. Yes, there was a fight in 1863 to 1864, but that was only with one particular lord of the central government of the Dai Nippon Empire. And in the end that gave birth to the Shimoneski Convention of 1864, which improved Dutch-Japanese relations even further. So it is indeed strange that you colonial gentlemen feel so worried and unhappy over this! “You gentlemen have defeated the peoples of the Indies, so you have the right to expect their respect. You have the right to demand anything whatsoever from them: a right that the law of history, where victory in war determines all, has conferred upon you. But in the case of the Japanese, it makes sense to acknowledge them as equals.”

And Telinga again: “It's a pity I don't know anything about the Romans, though it must be true if it's written in the histories. But there is a difference with the Japanese. It's not possible to acknowledge them to be equally tall in all climes. That would be directly violating the laws of nature.”

And Jean Marais: “Why can't those who disagree with the decision restrain their need to hurl insults? Amongst ourselves—if all we want to do is hurl insults—it has to be acknowledged that we all don't stand equally tall; with stupid insults we will only strike back at ourselves. It's true, isn't it, that you could get together a number of colonial gentlemen who are dwarfs, either because their growth was stunted or because they were naturally small.”

Another voice again: “Japan has been given equal status with Europe. And that is only possible because of our own generosity and sense of charity. Now it is law. And this is the question: If China achieves some little progress like Japan, will China also be given equal status? There's nothing wrong with daring to put such a question. We must dare also to answer it. If it turns out that we must answer yes, what then will become of these Indies? What will our position be then?” “The Japanese and Chinese people are famous for their wandering, a wandering caused by their poverty. The latest news is that the Japanese are flooding into Hawaii, and have already begun arriving in America—both north and south. The Chinese have come into Southeast Asia in wave after wave. Those who know say it started before Christ. In the Indies itself, the number of Chinese is several times greater than the grand total of all the Pure and Mixed-Blood Europeans. Can we forget the Chinese War of 1741 to 1743 when the Chinese Imperial Fleet swept the Dutch East Indies Company from all its footholds on the north coast of Java? And then the fall of the Court of Katasura? It is hoped that our great colonial leaders, whom we all honor and respect, will spare some moments to contemplate these things. “Look at our colonial investments: How much money and how many lives have we already flushed down the drain to put down every resistance of the Natives—from the moment we set foot here up to this very second? How many thousands of our soldiers have died in Java and Sumatra because of war and malaria? We have waged continuous war in order to retain power. Every barracks-child can tell you! Even now in the very center of the Indies there are enclaves of power that have not bowed down before Her Majesty the Queen. Now there is a yellow-skinned people who have been made our equals: a nation of imitators. With our European technology, they have tried to sow the seeds of pride in their breasts by attacking and conquering Manchuria. The scholars say Japan wants to strengthen itself with the iron and steel of Manchuria. “With iron and steel, and the science and learning of Europe, we dare not imagine what will happen to the fruits of all our strivings and efforts in the future. Ask any soldier who has had to go into battle time and time again! Ask the men who have served in the Field Police. Just count up how many have died or been disabled for life for the glory of the Greater Netherlands! Be careful!”

I myself, as a result of all this, was forced to imagine Japan as very very close to the Indies, ready at any moment to replace the power and authority of the Netherlands.

The Malay-Chinese papers, which mostly printed advertisements, remained silent; they gave no opinion. Even the turmoil in China itself was hardly ever reported.

Here are my own conclusions on this matter. There was fear among the colonial classes in the Indies. It was as if they had lost faith in their own strength. And how can such a tall people be so afraid of another race—a race it despises, upon which it is always heaping insults? I did not understand. But I could sense that something was making the Europeans and their Mixed-Blood relatives very anxious.

Mama had not been reading the newspapers over the last several days. She was still busy, and not paying much attention to her makeup and dress. Dark rings shadowed her eyes. She rarely spoke, rarely greeted me. When she wasn't working, I usually found her lost in thought. I didn't bother her with my questions.

If I forced myself to understand what was going on—even with my current limited capabilities—I came to the conclusion that the colonials were frightened of their own imaginings, imaginings of things far away on the distant horizon. For me Japan still represented something abstract. My admiration of her was admiration of an abstraction. In my mind I could not yet feel Japan in its concreteness. It was different with the Chinese, who could be seen and met almost anywhere in the Indies, their bare feet tramping the highways and village lanes, their backs loaded with peddlers' merchandise, their skin clear and clean. And they never complained! No one ever got to know them well because of their different language, their different habits and beliefs. But for me there was always something special about them. Without ever swinging a hoe or machete, without ever turning soil or planting seeds, they were able to eat and live better than most Natives. Nobody wanted to see this special achievement, but only to stare wide-eyed at their foreignness. If the Chinese had this extra ability, surely the Japanese would be even further advanced.

Then an image of Maiko came to me—the one and only Japanese I'd ever seen and whom I met during the court trials. She was just one among so many Japanese prostitutes who had left the land of their birth, determined to accumulate some capital so that they could return and set up a business with their husbands. And how much capital had already been gathered by all these prostitutes throughout the world? How much had been taken back to Japan by people other than prostitutes? How many businesses had been set up in Japan by now? I could not even imagine—except for how busy that nation must be with every kind of business and enterprise.

Even though I was a great admirer of Japan I had never dreamed that this people, who had never been conquered by Europe, could become so highly respected among the international community of advanced nations. Their warships patrolled all the world's waterways. The mouths of their cannons gaped out at both sky and sea. How proud any Asian would be to be so respected, never having to crawl and kowtow to some foreign power.

And then one day, quite unexpectedly, Maarten Nijman started a new controversy: “The Yellow Peril from the North.” In contrast to his earlier article, he gave the following warning: “Only one step away from Japan is China. A sense of restlessness has lately been in the air among all the peoples of the European colonies of Southeast Asia, from Cochin China to the Indies. The target of this restlessness has been colonial authority. And there's another restlessness that is not so well known but deeper and more hidden—the restlessness of conquered peoples who have had enough, who are tired of satisfying the wants of those who have made themselves masters—all those who must be called Sir. This is the restlessness of the religious leaders of the people in the conquered areas. It has been there for a very, very long time. But an even more important source of restlessness, which hasn't been recognized as such, is the 'yellow peril from the north.' The reform movement, the renaissance in China, however small and meaningless it may seem, will, as time goes on, grow larger and larger.”

I didn't really understand what he meant by restlessness, so I made sure I remembered that word. Restless! restless!

And it was none other than Herbert de la Croix who, through a letter from Miriam, completely dumbfounded me.

My good Minke, please don't become bored with us because we're always nagging you with our opinions about your people and your country. Papa says that right up to today, Minke, the nations of the north have come to your country to tread upon you. Yes, even in our times, Minke. You yourself have experienced this. The north has always been sacred to your people, even in their dreams. Isn't a dream of sailing northward considered an omen of approaching death? And haven't your people, since the forgotten ages, buried their corpses pointing to the north? And your ideal home, isn't that one that faces north? According to Papa, this is because it is from the north that the marching feet of conquering peoples have come, ensuring your backwardness, then deserting you, and leaving you only the waste of their civilization, their diseases, and just a little of their learning.

I write this with a heavy heart, my dear Minke, not to hurt your feelings, but only to pass on a message: The north contains no magic. But it is true that you must keep your eyes to the north always in vigilance.

Jean Marais said: “I think, Minke, that your country is too isolated—it can't bear the life-beat of other countries. They can come out here into warm and gentle lands, relax, live like kings. Even a small nation like the Dutch. And your people can do nothing about it. Three hundred years, Minke. Not an insignificant time."

Shameful. And there was more. I felt furious in my impotence.

This tumult of ideas and opinions from so many people made me more and more confused. School was simpler; you just had to listen and have faith in a few teachers. The best marks went to the student who could turn himself into what the teachers wanted.

Maarten Nijman wrote: “The Chinese Young Generation, so well schooled, are jealous of Japan's achievements, the same Japan that is robbing China of parts of its own territory. They are jealous! And furious and angry because they are aware but powerless.”

Just like me. “Pity the Chinese Young Generation,” said Nijman. “They are forty years behind the Japanese, the cousins of whom they're so jealous. Imagine, just to rid themselves of their thau-cang—pigtails—and to free the feet of their women from that tormenting, deforming custom, will need at least fifteen more years. Even then there is no guarantee of success. Ah yes, because 'custom' will oppose the Chinese Young Generation with the force of arms. If they do succeed in ridding the byways of the world of pigtails and the tiny deformed feet of their women, they will still not have freed themselves from that habit of coughing up phlegm and spitting it out—a revolting habit that makes one's hair stand on end—a habit that has caused the Chinese to lose the sympathy of the whole world! To get rid of that habit the Young Generation would have to work for another twenty-five years at least. So it will still be about seventy-five years before the world won't feel disgusted when standing near a Chinese.”

Still Nijman's opinion: “Japan is now looked upon as equal with Europe, China not yet. What people say is true: There is only one step between China and Japan. But it cannot be measured in miles or kilometers. It is a step in civilization. It can be measured only in terms of the Chinese people's own capacities.”

Nijman's writings were interesting. One day I would ask his opinion of my own people. Are my people as pathetic as the de la Croix family says? Perhaps he has some kind of abacus he can use to calculate how many dozens of years it will take the Javanese to reach the same level as the Japanese.

And more Nijman: “That distance in civilization, however many steps it may be, is not important. In the end the strong always swallow the weak, even if the strong are only small in number. Just try to imagine: the Chinese nation is a big nation; what if it were strong as well? The Yellow Peril, sirs, the Yellow Peril. Be careful, very careful. Japan is already a reality; China can likewise become a reality, whether we like it or not. Perhaps we won't ever see it ourselves. But be very careful, because time keeps moving on, whether we like it or not.”

Then one day a letter from Nijman landed on my desk—for me. He hoped that I could come to the editorial offices to write up an English-language interview with a Chinese youth.

An interview in English, not Dutch! If there is anyone who cannot see that this is a great advance, I don't know what to say to them. Mama had no objections. Like my own mother, she never forbade me anything. Also like Mother, she supported everything I did, as long as I was prepared to bear the risk and as long as it did not harm anyone else.

So it seemed that it was only Jean Marais who objected. He began the argument a week ago. “Minke, I've wanted to talk to you for some time, but I've always held back,” he said, “even though I feel it my duty.” “What is it, Jean?” “It's like this, Minke. You have become famous and respected because of your writings. No one can deny that. But my opinion is different. Perhaps my opinion originally comes from you. Look, Minke, I feel the respect you have obtained doesn't come from your writing. It is respect for your character. You present and show things differently. It is all uniquely Minke. Your writing is only an emanation, no, not even that, just a reflection of your character. You are a very interesting individual. Fortunately you have mastered Dutch, so you write in Dutch.”

From the beginning my suspicions were aroused. Perhaps his opinions were only secondhand too—he didn't read Dutch. And he didn't normally speak for so long at once. I didn't like being lectured to like this. If all he wanted to do was to free himself from his dependence on me, I didn't see why he had to start off with a speech. It was his right to stand on his own feet. It was good if he felt he could stand alone now. I too would join in thanking God.

But the way he delivered his little speech made me feel he was letting out some suppressed emotion, ready to explode. “Yes, Jean?” “There is something I feel is a great pity. Something that thousands of other people feel is a great pity too: Why do you only write in Dutch? Who do you only speak to the Dutch and the others who understand their language? You owe nothing to them, just as your mother once told you. What do you expect from them that makes you want to speak only to them?”

My prejudice made me feel his words were jumping out at me, without any humility: arrogant, piercingly lecturing, even reprimanding me. My anger welled up and overflowed. I sensed he was preparing to entrap me. He wanted me to write in Malay so that he himself could read my writings directly, while destroying my fame and achievement and prestige. I gazed at him with bulging, angry eyes.

"Are you angry, Minke?" he asked in an arrogant tone of voice.

I restrained my fury. Whatever else, he was my friend, not an enemy. He must not become a former friend. Perhaps he simply didn't want to face reality: my character, my individuality, could not be separated from the Dutch language. To separate these things would only make this person named Minke nothing better than roadside rubbish. “So you want me to write in Malay,” I asked, “so that no one will read what I write? In a language that you can understand?” “You've got it wrong, Minke. I personally am not a factor in this. I'm only speaking like this for your own benefit. Malay is used more than any other language in the Indies, much more than Dutch.”

I rejected his proposition. “Why don't you accept reality? Only those with little or no education read Malay.”

Jean seemed to be offended, perhaps because he himself couldn't speak Dutch. And indeed I wanted him to be offended, to be hurt. His heart must suffer the hurt that mine was now feeling.

However he then whispered harshly: “You're an educated Native! While Native people are not educated, it is you who must ensure they become educated. You must, must, must speak to them in a language they understand.” “Malay readers are, at the most, only uneducated European Mixed-Bloods who work in the plantations and factories.” “Don't belittle,” he said more harshly. “Do you consider Kommer uneducated? He writes in Malay. He translates your writings into Malay. Do you think it was Dutchmen who defended you in your difficulties? How many of those uneducated ones were prepared to go to jail to defend you? And for how long? They defended your marriage because of Kommer's translations, because of Kommer's writings, not because of your Dutch articles.” “You're lying!” “That's what Kommer said.” “You're a liar!” I roared. “He understands Natives better than you!” he hissed in accusation. “You don't know your own people.” “You're going way too far now!” “Through the Malay readers, even the illiterate eventually found out. Their feelings were moved, their sense of justice was offended—” I left his house, no longer able to control my fury. I went straight to the buggy, jumped aboard, and ordered Marjuki to get going. “Just had an argument, Young Master?” Marjuki asked.

I didn't answer.

The buggy started off. From behind I could hear the sharp-pitched cries of little Maysoroh Marais: “Uncle! Uncle!”

Damn! Keep going, Juki! Maysoroh be damned as well! It's no loss to me if I no longer know you. Then suddenly the words of Marais from two years ago echoed in my mind: “You are educated! You must be fair and just—beginning with your thoughts.”

Have I been just? I turned around. The little girl was still chasing after the buggy, crying out and calling me to come back. Was it right for me to treat her this way, this child who had done me no wrong? Was my treatment of her father proper? Was I right that he only wanted me to write in a language that he knew? What has this girl done to you, Minke? “Go back!” I ordered Marjuki. “Go back where, Young Master?” “To where we've just come from. Stop by that little girl.”

By the time we reached May, she was panting desperately. I jumped down. Her face was wet with tears and her hand was still waving futilely in the air. I picked her up and carried her. “What's the matter, May?”

Between her sobs she said in French: “Don't be angry with Papa. Uncle is Papa's only friend.”

That truly cut my heart. I hurriedly whispered in her ear: “No, May, I'm not angry with your papa. Truly, I'm not. Let's go home.” “Uncle shouted so loudly at Papa,” she protested. “I won't shout at your papa again, May,” I promised. “I prepared a drink for you,” she spoke again, “and you wanted to leave, just like that. Doesn't Uncle love May any more?”

Wiping away her tears with a handkerchief, I carried her back inside the house on my shoulder. Jean Marais was still sitting, thinking. He didn't lift his eyes to look at me, as if he no longer wanted to know me. Maysoroh ran out to the back and returned with drinks. Then she rushed to her father's side. Her clearly spoken words were interspersed with sobs: “Papa, Uncle is not angry with you anymore.”

Jean Marais was silent.

I regretted everything that had happened, as did he. I swallowed the drink May had brought. I caressed her hair, then excused myself. “No!” protested May. She began to cry again. “You still haven't spoken to Papa.” She collided into me, her red eyes moist, protesting in her own way. I too was now shedding tears. I ran to Jean Marais. I embraced him; I kissed him on his thickly whiskered cheeks: “Forgive me, Jean, forgive me.” I cried and Jean cried.

All this happened a week ago.

Now, with Nijman's letter in my hand, I went to Jean's place again. Eight-thirty in the morning. May was at school. Jean was painting. My anger would now avenge itself. Not only does Minke not need to write in Malay, but he has taken another step upward: He is going to do an interview in English.

He didn't seem bothered by my arrival. I went up to him and began: “Jean, once more forgive me my unworthy behavior of the other day.”

Without turning, and while still sweeping the canvas with his brush, he answered: “I understand your difficulties, Minke. You've suffered a lot of sadness lately. You're still in mourning. I was also in the wrong; I wasn't very clever in choosing the time. Forget it, Minke. And more than that, it's not right for me to interfere in how you dedicate your life. I didn't mean anything bad by what I said.”

His pronouncement sounded long and formal—a warning bell. “Of course, nothing bad would come from you.”

Now the moment had arrived for me to avenge his earlier arrogance. I would show him the letter from Nijman so that he would know: Minke was always advancing. He would be startled. He must be startled. He had to understand just who this person Minke was. “Jean, Nijman has written to me. He wants to see me at his office, but not to write in Dutch. You don't agree, do you, with me writing in Dutch?” He put down his brush and stared at me in great surprise. “It's not that I don't agree,” he answered, but didn't continue. “Nijman has asked me to write. Do you know in what, Jean? English!”

As if he understood that this was my revenge, his hand nervously sought his brush; he knocked it and it fell to the floor. He didn't retrieve it. He brushed his hands on his trouser legs and then held one out to me. He said coldly: “Congratulations, Minke. You are indeed progressing.”

Now feel what it's like! I shouted silently, thrilled, in my heart. Filled with my victory, I examined his paintings.

Following Dr. Martinet's sales talk at my wedding, Jean had received many orders for portraits that didn't come through me. He'd already finished more than ten paintings. The one of Dr. Martinet was the only one I recognized. Quite accurate, with the dusky sky as background. His eyes gazed at me without blinking. The point of his nose shone in its sharpness. I could recognize in the painting both Dr. Martinet and his kindness. “Those pictures are all finished, Minke. They just need to be collected.” Suddenly he turned the conversation. “You're still an admirer of Japan, Minke, aren't you?” “That's right, Jean.”

He didn't go on, but began to identify each of the portraits for me: this administrator, that official or police officer…as if showing off his triumphs, showing that he could succeed without me, and even succeed better. “You're doing very well too, Jean,” I praised him. “No, Minke. None of this is the proper work of an artist. Just the work of a day-laborer, a coolie.” “But these pictures are all of important people—all of them.” “That's got nothing to do with the art of painting. It's only to make a living, not for making life fulfilling. There is nothing of any importance that I want to say that I can put in those portraits. Except perhaps for the one of Dr. Martinet.” “I understand your words, Jean, but not what you mean.” I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye, and my impression was that he wasn't jealous of my success—he really was dissatisfied with his work. “Do you remember Maiko, the Japanese prostitute?” “Of course, Jean. That small, fragile woman?” “Servicing people for no other reason than to make a living. I'm no different from Maiko. It makes me ashamed.” “The comparison is extreme,” I said. “Just think: I get paid for pleasing other people who have no spiritual or emotional relationship with me. In art, that's called prostitution. You're lucky to be able to pour out what you feel in your writings. I can't.”

He limped across to the window on his crutches. With his back to me, he said: “So you're still an admirer of Japan?”

"Why, Jean?" “If all the Japanese didn't want to write in their own language...”

Straight away I knew he was launching a counterattack. I returned to my earlier vigilance.

But he changed direction: “Do you remember what I once said about Jepara carving? I got more satisfaction out of working Jepara-type motifs into my furniture. At least it meant I was doing something to ensure that one of the beautiful creations of your people would be permanently preserved for others to see. I often hear from Kommer that the Javanese have many beautiful writings. I think that if I knew about Java, I'd be more happy translating them and bringing them to the French people than working like Maiko with all this.”

Now I was at an even greater loss to understand. Yet I had the feeling that with this puzzle too he was still on the attack. “You're confused, Jean.” “Yes, I'm confused.”

We both went silent. I began to think over his words. Then all of a sudden the hidden meaning came to me, emerging as the meaning of one sentence linked up with another: an admirer of Japan...if all Japanese didn't want to speak in their own language...preserve forever some of the beautiful creations of Java...translate and bring them to the French people rather than work like Maiko....yes. He was still on the attack. And I could sense that the purpose behind his attack was the same as before: to get me to change from writing in Dutch to writing in Malay or Javanese. It was clear he didn't think much of my getting the English interview at all.

I steered his attention in another direction: “How's the picture of my wife going, Jean?” “Annelies is so beautiful and alluring. She doesn't need any adornments. Her last experiences gave a special substance to her character. Only the brush stroke of a painter who truly knew her, Minke, can realize her potential as a subject for a portrait.”

I didn't understand about art. So: “Naturally, Jean.” “Moreover, I don't need to lie to you or Nyai.” It seemed he was reading my thoughts. He stressed the word lie as if inviting me to recall our argument of a week ago. “It's not right to lie to a friend,” he said.

So he was still pushing me to write in Malay or Javanese. “If you're in a hurry, Jean, I'll meet May later,” I said, ending that unpleasant conversation. “You're always so kind, Minke.”

And I left him there with his thoughts.

I arrived too early at Nijman's office. There was a Chinese youth sitting in the waiting room. His pigtail, his thau-cang, looked too long for his thin body. Its light brown color also didn't seem right for his clear ivory-yellow skin. It was as though you could see the whole system of blood vessels through his transparent skin. But that too-long pigtail trailing right down to the waist! Strange! Long and not very thick. Not in balance with the round, fat, healthy red face. Just his face though; his body was gaunt. I looked at the thau-cang's hairs again: coarse and very thick.

I don't know why the pigtailed youth nodded to me, smiling so that his narrow eyes almost disappeared. His teeth became visible: few and far between and very sharp. His clothes of Shantung silk were ivory-yellow, clean but old. His reddish face reminded me of a guava fruit.

After nodding and smiling, he just sat silently and didn't try to start a conversation.

I made a guess: This is the Chinese youth Nijman wants interviewed. I was disappointed at the idea that this might be him—just a youth dressed in Shantung pajamas, without any shoes, with pointed and few-and-far-between teeth—just a sinkeh. There's no way some sinkeh boy would have any business with a Dutch newspaper! And if this was the one, why didn't he appear to be educated? Coming into a European's office wearing pajamas, even if they were from Shantung silk. He looked more like a peddler from the villages. He wasn't even wearing sandals, but was barefoot.

A Pure-Blood sinyo requested that I go upstairs to the editorial office. Nijman was writing at his desk. He put his quill back into the ink bottle, stood up, and shook hands with me. His words were merry, friendly, yet very polite and gentle. “I trust that you have now got over your troubles, Tuan. That is why I took the decision to write to you.” “Thank you, Tuan Nijman.” “We all greatly admire the resolve and patience of you and Nyai. How is your wife's health, Tuan?”

"Fine, Tuan, fine," I lied. “I'm glad to hear it. Do you remember your last article? You compared something with a sparrow in a storm? It's my own opinion the comparison is not quite right. In my view, and it's not just my own, it is you, Tuan, that is the storm, and that which you considered was a storm was really the sparrow.” “This time you are truly exaggerating,” I answered, and I remembered Mother's warning always to be wary of flatterers. “No”—he took out his pocket watch and looked at it for a moment—“I doubt if one in a thousand people could get through what you have got through safely. The reality is that you yourself progress further and further because of these difficulties. That is why I decided to write to you: Begin with English! Defeated in one field of battle, but victorious in another. What's the difference? Isn't that so, Tuan Minke? If you succeed, your voice will be able to reach the international audience without going via the translations of others, yes?” “You exaggerate.” “Not at all,” he said firmly. “Since the Japanese have been given equal status, all sorts of strange things have been happening in Southeast Asia.” “I've studied all your articles but, excuse me, I haven't read about anything strange happening.”

He laughed and invited me to sit on the settee: “Not everything is reported in the papers, Tuan. Look, you've read my writings about the Chinese young people who are restless and jealous of Japan?" His eyes pierced mine with the question. “Yes, and I read a lot more after I received your letter.” “Excellent. It looks like these young Chinese have a real passion to catch up with Japan. Once you have begun to write in English, you'll be able to establish direct contact with publishers in Singapore and Hong Kong. That will bring you closer to the British empire, to the international audience. Your writings about these strange goings-on will be very interesting to the international community, Tuan. Who knows, you might be a big success in this too.” “Ah, you are exaggerating very much, Tuan.” “Not at all. We'll try. To start with, you will note down an interview between myself and a young Chinaman about your age.”

I had not been wrong. It was indeed the young sinkeh with the guava-ball face who was going to be interviewed. “And besides that,” Nijman went on, “you will be able to see close up just how these strange goings-on are taking form. It will be very interesting. These young Chinese are nothing but clowns making unfunny and dangerous jokes. Not at all funny, even saddening. And everyone knows you are far more educated than all of them. The Dutch education system is rated among the best in the world. Just look upon this experiment as an enjoyable game.”

The Pure sinyo who was outside a while ago opened the door. Guava Face stood in the doorway, bowing his head deeply. When he stood up straight again he seemed even skinnier than before. “Please come in,” Nijman said in English, without moving from his chair. I followed his example.

The Chinaman's bare feet made their way nimbly and quickly across the room and brought him up to us. He stopped in front of Nijman's desk, where he bowed once again and expressed his greetings in an English with which I wasn't familiar.

I got in first by holding out my hand. Then I sensed my own nervousness: I mustn't fail this test. I will suffer great embarrassment if I am unable to catch what he says.

Nijman still sat in his chair. His English was clear. “Please sit down, sir,” he said. “Mr. Minke, this is Mr. Khouw Ah Soe. Mr. Khouw Ah Soe, you must have come across Mr. Minke's name in the newspapers."

Guava Face bowed even while seated. He bowed so often I began to wonder whether it really was Chinese custom, real Chinese custom, in its pure form. “Ya-ya-ya, Mr. Minke...”

I sharpened my listening to accustom myself to his accent. “The waves of events involving yourself and your family—we followed them closely. We all have sympathy for you and your family. May you remain strong. And what is the news of your wife now?”

"Very good, thank you, Mr. Khouw."

His narrow eyes penetrated mine. I observed them for a second. Standing there with nothing on his feet, wearing only pajamas, he didn't seem to suffer any sense of inferiority at all. He moved and spoke as if he weren't arraigned before a European, but among his own best friends. This approach might not be very pleasant for Nijman, who would be used to being fawned upon by Natives. And that's what made Khouw's behavior so interesting to me. He didn't try to pretend to be anything more than he really was. His face reddened as he talked. His few pointed teeth appeared and disappeared from behind his lips. “I'd like to talk to you one day if you have the time,” he said to me. “In any case, sir, we are very grateful to you that, no matter what the means and route was, you played a role in the destruction of the corrupt Old Generation that Ah Tjong symbolized.”

Word by word I followed what he was saying. But, damn it, I didn't know what he meant. All I could do was grimace. It seemed he had already become used to speaking English in his own way. I tuned my ear so as to hear better. “Your contribution was really greater than ours. May I know where you live? Are you still with that business?” he asked. “Still, Mr. Khouw.” I was amazed that he knew all that. “May I, perhaps, visit there one day?” “Of course. And just wait there for me if I haven't arrived home yet.”

Nijman intervened: “Let's begin our interview, gentlemen.”

I readied myself with pencil and paper. The Pure sinyo appeared at the door again, but Nijman waved him away. “Now, Mr. Khouw,” Nijman began, “would you like to tell us where you come from and what education you have?” “Of course. I am from Tientsin, the son of a merchant.” “What kind of merchant, Mr. Khouw?” “Everything that can be sold, sir. I'm a graduate of the English-language secondary school at Shanghai.” “But it's not close to Shanghai—Tientsin—is it?” “Not at all close.” “Are you a graduate from a Protestant or Catholic mission school?”

I wrote and wrote. Not sentences—just words. “What kind of school it was and who owned it aren't important. In the beginning I wanted to continue my schooling in Japan. But knowing that there were very few places put aside for foreign students, I didn't try, especially as I knew that several of my fellow countrymen there returned before finishing their studies.”

He was silent for a moment. It seemed he was giving me time to take down what he was saying. “Was their action a protest or the result of discrimination against them?” asked Nijman. “Neither. They had taken an oath to become good workers for the Chinese Young Generation movement.” “So then you joined them?” “Exactly. There is no point in becoming a clever expert, as clever as a May tree—” “What is a May tree?” “Just the name of a tree that turns the mountains yellow whenever it flowers.”

"And it is really tall, this tree?" “No, not really…anyway, any education would be wasted if one had to take orders from the, corrupt and ignorant Older Generation that holds power, or if you had to become ignorant and corrupt yourself in order to be able to maintain that power. All a waste, sir. Even the cleverest of experts who became part of an ignorant power would become ignorant also.” “So you object to the nature of the power of the Chinese empire at the moment?” asked Nijman. “Exactly!” “But that is rebellion against the emperor.” “Is there any other way?” “Japan still has an emperor.” “We are not Japan. Japan is experiencing her awakening. China is in the process of collapse. We want to speed up that collapse so as to rise again, free of oppression.” “But the Chinese Older Generation is famed for its wisdom, the great heritage it has left China, books and cultural artifacts, a high civilization...” “True, but that was the Older Generation when it was the Young Generation. This is the modern age. Any nation and people that cannot absorb the power of Europe, and then arise and utilize it, will be swallowed up by Europe. We have to make our China equal with Europe without becoming Europe, as Japan is doing.” “Do you really believe in what you are saying?” “That belief is, indeed, precisely the power that mobilizes us. We have never been conquered by another race, and we are not willing to undergo that experience. On the other hand, we have no dreams of conquering other races. That is our belief. Our people have a saying: 'In the sky there is heaven, on earth there is Hanchou,' and we young people have added: 'In the heart is faith.'” “You speak like a member of the English parliament,” Nijman flattered him. “You desire and are struggling for a new form of authority.” There was insult in Nijman's voice. “You want China to become a republic?” “Yes.” “You want to rival the United States and France?” Nijman smiled arrogantly. “Is there any other road that new nations can take in this modern age?” “While most of the countries of Europe are not yet republics!” “That's nothing to do with us.” “Yet you yourself still wear the thau-cang.”

Khouw Ah Soe smiled politely, bowing. Nijman seemed unable to restrain his amusement and laughed also. I, on the other hand, was offended. Nijman's words went too far. It was Khouw Ah Soe's right to wear a pigtail. “Do you know the meaning of the pigtail?” Khouw Ah Soe suddenly asked in reply. “No. It must be very important.” There was a smile on Nijman's face. “Tell us about it.” “It's an unusual story, the story of the pigtail. There was once a time when Europe so admired our civilization that the French took to wearing pigtails. Then, sir, the Dutch took on the practice also. So too did the Americans wear thau-cangs.”

Nijman went pale. He murmured agreement. “But that was when Europe had not known us long. Of course it is not like that now. Even so, it is still quite amazing: Europeans wearing pigtails! Even the Americans, during their revolution! During France's period of triumph and glory, they not only copied the pigtail but also the habit of eating frogs, which the rest of humanity looked upon as degrading. And what was, in truth, the thau-cang, sir? Nothing more than a symbol of slavery and obedience, originating during the period when China was ruled by the people from the north. Sir, the pigtail in China was a symbol of humiliation. In Europe it was the other way around; it was a symbol of triumph, at one time, during one era. In China people used to eat frogs because of their poverty; in Europe it was a part of its grandeur. So topsy-turvy is history. The mighty race that forced us to wear pigtails is now being subjugated by the Japanese, who seek iron and steel and coal to make themselves strong. That is if I'm not mistaken.” “A very interesting interview”—Nijman gave his assessment—“almost a lecture.” “Forgive me, Mr. Editor, it was not my intention to give a lecture. This is a very important moment for me. It is the first time, perhaps, that a member of the Chinese Young Generation has been interviewed like this.” “This Young Generation—it has no publications of its own?” “In this modern era, there is no movement that does not have its own publications, sir. And vice versa, sir, isn't it so? Every publication must represent some specific interest or power group, even your own publication. I'm not wrong, am I?” “And when will you cut off your humiliating pigtail?” “There will be a time for that, sir.” “What was your purpose in coming to the Indies?” “To see the world.” “Oh. Ya. You are the son of a merchant who sells anything that can be sold, yes?”

Khouw Ah Soe nodded in affirmation. “You came by yourself. But you are a member of the Young Generation. How is it possible you have no friends with you, and have just come here to see the world?” “Perhaps we have a different idea of what the word friend means. Our members are just workers, carrying out history. That is what I am as well. We are only ants who want to erect a new castle of history.” “Mr. Khouw Ah Soe, it seems to me that you are not just a high-school graduate. It appears that you have studied at university. The way you bow is not Chinese but Japanese. It seems you are trying to hide the fact that you have lived in Japan—for at least two or three years. You are, at the very least, a very intelligent university student.” “Truly a compliment to be valued highly, sir.” “And you haven't come to the Indies by yourself.” “I wish that were true; I would not be so lonely.” “It is not the Chinese way to wander around by oneself.” “Oh yes? It appears you have a great knowledge of the Chinese. Well, if you are right, let me ask you: May not a Chinese with some European education be somewhat different from his own group and people?” “Mr. Khouw Ah Soe, what is your opinion of an elephant that leaves its herd? Isn't he a very dangerous elephant? Can't you be compared to such an elephant? You are a member of the Chinese Young Generation, a member that has left its group. It is certain you are not here just to wander around and look at the sights.”

"Wonderful. Then you must be right." “Why is that?” “Because according to our ancestors, the host must always be honored.” “You have a very clever tongue. May I now put to you the last question? Did you enter the Indies legally or did you sneak in?” “A very good question, one that history will also put to the peoples of Europe: Oh, you peoples of Europe—and not just individuals—did you enter the Indies legally or did you sneak in? It is you yourself who must answer that question, not me. Good afternoon.”

Khouw Ah Soe rose from his chair. Smiling, he shook hands with me, then with Nijman, bowed, and left the office.

For several moments Nijman sat numbed, his gaze riveted on the door now closed behind his guest. Then, realizing his condition, he turned to me, saying, “Yes, Mr. Minke, write up the interview in English. It looks like he is hiding quite a lot. He says he's from north China, but he has a southerner's name. Says he has never been to Japan but is unable to rid himself of Japanese customs like that bowing of his...." He didn't go on with his grumblings.

I began to write it up. Less than an hour later I left the office. I still had time to pick up May. I dropped into a shop: I had to buy something for the little girl. I found a doll that looked very much like Annelies.

May's school hadn't finished for the day. I had to wait a few minutes. As soon as school was over, May caught sight of my buggy, ran to us, climbed aboard, and called out to some of her friends to join her. So we had no choice but to transport this gang of little chatterboxes to their homes. May's house was the last one.

As she was about to climb down from the buggy, I opened up the box and handed her the doll. She jumped up and down in excitement. She kissed me over and over again. She kissed the plump, pretty doll too. “Climb down, May. I have to go straight on.” “No, I don't want to climb down!” she rebelled. “Ah, you're being naughty. I've still got a lot of work to do.” “Everyone's got a lot of work to do. Me too. Come on, come in.” “No, May.”

She went silent. Her eyes moistened, then she cried in French: “Here's your doll. I'm giving it back. Uncle doesn't like Papa anymore.” “You're getting more and more spoiled, May,” I said, but the words kneaded my heart. How great was this child's love for her father; she didn't want to see her father lose a friend. “All right then, I'll take you inside.”

I climbed down ahead of her, carrying her schoolbag. She carried the doll herself. She ran inside. “Papa!” she shouted. “May was given a doll by Uncle Minke. Isn't Uncle Minke kind, Papa?”

I came in and saw the child cuddle up to her father. I heard Jean Marais answer, “Very kind, May.”

I avoided looking at the paintings. My heart was troubled by the girl's behavior, which had thrown my feelings into confusion. In a flurry she brought in some drinks. After putting the glasses on the table she gave me a long look, then those big eyes of hers gazed at her father.

"Why doesn't Papa talk to Uncle Minke?" she demanded. “That painting is finished now, Minke.”

The child observed her father, then me. “Are there other things that you want to paint, Jean?” “Yes, there are many more.” “Why isn't Uncle laughing, or smiling and grinning as you usually do?” May demanded.

So I laughed and laughed until I felt my jaw would drop off. Seeing all this, Jean Marais also laughed boisterously. May was the only one who didn't laugh. All of a sudden she embraced her father, and wouldn't let go.

Jean Marais and I went silent on seeing the child's strange behavior. “What is it, May?” She let go of her papa and ran into her room. We heard her howling; it seemed she would never stop.

I ran into her room. She was hiding her face under her pillow and her arms were hugging the edges of the mattress of the small wooden divan. “May, May, what's the matter?”

I took the pillow from her face and caressed her head. Slowly the crying faded. I sat her up; she didn't resist. “Don't cry, May. Don't make Papa and Uncle Minke sad.” She didn't want to look at me. Jean Marais came in, limping, and sat on the divan. “The two of us don't understand, May. What is it?” I asked. Still she wouldn't look at either of us. “Do you love your papa?” I asked.

She nodded. “Do you love Uncle Minke?”

She nodded again. “We both love you very, very much. Don't cry!”

But she started howling again. Between her sobs she protested: “You're lying to me. You've become enemies.”

Later in the evening, having convinced May that the two of us hadn't become enemies, I was able to go home.

Soerabaiaasch Nieuws van den Dag hadn't yet published my interview with Khouw.

The next afternoon the much-awaited report finally appeared. It wasn't a headline, but it was placed in a prominent corner with an attention-getting title: “A Meeting with a Member of the Chinese Young Generation.” I was tremendously pleased that my first work in English was good enough to be used by Nijman. I would enjoy it after dinner.

After dinner I sat with Mama in the front room. Seeing her so busy with all kinds of calculations, I quickly said: “It's late, Ma. Give them here; let me do them.” “No, this is very personal. That wolf wants fifteen percent. I'm only prepared to let him have five.”

I knew the wolf was Mijnheer Dalmeyer, an accountant. There was no need for me to interfere. Why bargain over percentages? But my curiosity was aroused and I asked about it.

"Just read your newspaper."

Now and then I caught a glimpse of the figures on the sheets of paper. Figures and totals with six digits. I made a quick guess: the value of the whole business. She didn't take much longer to finish her work; then she told me: "Tomorrow I'm going to withdraw Annelies's money from the bank, Minke. I want to know how you feel: Do you feel I'm violating your rights by doing that?" “Mama! What are you saying? I don't have any such rights!” “No, Minke. No matter what, you are my own son, the same age as Robert. And you know that this business is going to be taken over by somebody that the law says has a greater right to it. I want to start another business. I need Annelies's money. Her savings from the last six years aren't all that much. She saved all of it—less than three thousand. I can invest that money in your name.” “No, Mama, thank you very much. But no.”

I began to read. But what was this? From the very first line, there was no similarity to the interview that had taken place. It read like this:

At eleven o'clock last Monday morning there appeared at the editorial office of this paper a member of the Chinese Young Generation. This person wanted to sell us information about his movement. He gave his name as Khouw Ah Soe, his place of birth as Tientsin, and said he was a graduate of an English-language High School in Shanghai, and was aged about twenty years. His entry into the Indies was no doubt illegal! And we would not be wrong in assuming that he arrived as a member of a large group with orders from their organization's headquarters in Japan.

As we all know, there have been many disturbances in the Indies since the arrival of members of this Young Generation. They openly seek the rapid abolition of the pigtail. The violation of this time-honored custom of China must be resisted.

From the very moment they arrived, they have been opposed by the Chinese sinkeh and Mixed-Blood subjects of the Indies. These former love and respect their ancestors, and feel that to lose one's pigtail is to lose one's Chineseness. They condemn the idea and any effort to abolish the pigtail.

Khouw Ah Soe came to Surabaya about two months ago. He doesn't speak Malay, but speaks good English, Mandarin, and Hokkien, and there are reports he has mastered two other southern dialects as well. Within a week of his arrival in Surabaya it appears he was able to influence several people. Together with these he organized a public meeting in the Kong Koan building. There he explained his lie, that the thau-cang was a symbol of humiliation that had its origins during a period of Mongol domination. And that it was a sign of the Chinese people's slavery under the northerners. The pigtail is no symbol of honor for the Chinese, he said.

The Kong Koan building burst into an uproar. The fury of the crowd couldn't be restrained. The whole debate was conducted in Hokkien. They all demanded: Cut his pigtail so he will be cursed by his ancestors!

According to our reporter, Khouw Ah Soe alone remained calm. He was not unnerved by the threats. He shifted his pigtail from his back across to his chest. Smiling he spoke: “Don't worry! I myself have already begun.”

He lifted up his hair, and the pigtail was false. His hair was cut short; he was almost bald.

The crowd charged the speaker and the meeting's organizers. Fighting broke out and there were many cries and shouts. Various martial arts left many people sprawled on the floor, some with broken bones. Khouw Ah Soe himself, with his false thau-cang, was taken to the hospital where he was to undergo treatment for fifteen days.

He has escaped from the hospital and it looks like he has run out of both energy and money. The Chinese community of Surabaya has rejected him. He has not received any support, especially not funds.

His attempt to sell us information is a sign of his failure. He is in very, very difficult straits.

What I had transcribed was nowhere to be found; there wasn't even the slightest similarity. One thing was clear however: Khouw Ah Soe would be in great difficulty as a result of this article.

"Why are you gasping like that?" asked Mama.

I told her what had happened. She also read the report. “How could they lie in an article like this? Something that should be respected because it's going to be read by thousands of people?” I exclaimed.

Mama looked at me with pity in her eyes. “Don't be sentimental. You've been educated to respect and even deify Europe, to trust in it unreservedly. Then, every time you discover reality—that there are Europeans without honor—you become sentimental. Europe is no more honorable than you, Child! Europe is only superior in the fields of science, learning and self-restraint. No more than that. Look at me, an example that is near to you—me, a villager, but I can hire Europeans and their skills. You can too. If they can be hired by anyone who can pay them, why can't the devil hire them too?”

Why can't the devil hire them? I lifted my eyes to look at her. Nyai was standing before me. She looked so tall, like a giant, like a mountain of coral. What kind of person was she? The whole world admired Europe because of its glorious history, because of its extraordinary achievements, its literary works, because of Europeans' abilities, their forever-new creations, and their newest creation of all: the modern age. My thoughts flew quickly to that anonymous tract that Magda Peters had given me. Among other things, it had said: The Natives of the Indies, and especially the Javanese, who have been defeated again and again in battle for hundreds of years now, have not only been forced to acknowledge the superiority of Europe, but have also been forced to feel inferior. And the Europeans, wherever they saw Natives not contracting the disease of inferiority, viewed them as a fortress of resistance that must be subjugated.

The tract went on to say: Is the European colonial view appropriate? It is not only unjust, it is not right. But colonial Europe doesn't stop there. After the Natives have fallen into this humiliation and are no longer able to defend themselves, they are ridiculed with the most humiliating abuse.

Europeans make fun of the Native rulers of Java who use superstition to control their own people, and who are thereby spared the expense of hiring police forces to defend their interests. The Powerful Goddess of the South Java Seas is a glorious creation of Java whose purpose is to help preserve the authority of the native kings of Java. But Europe too maintains superstitions—the superstition of the magnificence of science and learning. This superstition prevents the conquered peoples from seeing the true face of Europe, the true nature of the Europe that uses that science and learning. The European colonial rulers and the Native rulers are equally corrupt. “So why are you still so easily surprised?” asked Nyai, as if she had just finished reading that anonymous tract which, in fact, she had never seen. “Not only newspapers, Child, but also the courts, and the law itself, can be and are used by criminals to carry out their purposes. Minke, Child, don't be so easily swayed by names. Wasn't it you yourself who told me that our ancestors used great and splendid names in order to impress the world with their magnificence—an empty magnificence? Europe's show of magnificence isn't based on names; Europeans strut around with their science and learning. But the cheat remains a cheat, the liar remains a liar, even with his science and his learning.”

Her voice was pregnant with anger. I could understand why: Her already destroyed family was soon to lose all its property. It was about to be confiscated by the person the law said was the only heir, Engineer Maurits Mellema. I mustn't rub salt into her wounds. “If they can, and indeed do, do such things to us, why shouldn't they treat the Chinese boy in the same way?” she said. “That anyone would lie in a newspaper report, Ma—" “In everything they can get their hands on, Child. The predicament of that Chinese boy is the same as ours. He can't defend himself either. There was a time when mankind was oppressed by kings, Child; now he is oppressed by Europe.” “It looks like Khouw Ah Soe is in real trouble,” I said, turning the conversation, “not only with his own people, who don't want to see the end of the pigtail, but also with the police, because of the accusation that he entered the Indies illegally.” “So now you know your newspaper, Child.” “It is not my newspaper, Ma.” “I'm glad to hear that. But you must have the courage to bear the risks, Child.” “What risks, Ma?” “What risks? At the very least, that Chinese boy will suspect you of being involved in this shameless lie.” “Maybe he will come here.” “If he suspects you of being a liar and accomplice in all this, he won't come here.” “I hope he won't think that, Ma.” “If he doesn't, and he comes here, he is to receive our protection. He can stay in Darsam's house.” She sat down again. “He mustn't stay in this building. He mustn't be seen. Give him a good welcome, Child. No doubt his customs and manners will be different. But you will still be able to learn from him, from other ideas that aren't European.”

Learn from ideas that aren't European! What could my mother-in-law be thinking? “Why are you gaping like that? Did I say something wrong? Something not in accord with what your teachers have taught you? You're looking at me as if you've just met me for the first time!” “Yes, Ma, each day you amaze me more and more.” “So what have you learned from your mama?” “You're truly my teacher, Ma, a teacher who isn't European. I will try to make your teachings not just something I possess, but something I practice as well.” “That's not what I meant.” “Mama!” “Child, you are all I have left in the world now. I am alone in the world now. Why should I go on working like this? I could easily see out my days without doing any more work. But this business must not die of neglect. It is my own child, my first child. It must remain my beloved child, even if it does fall into the hands of others. It may not be hurt or damaged like the others. It may not be treated just like some dairy cow.”

Her thoughts were on the predicament of her business, but she still thought of the interests of others. “It is my first child. Soon none of it will be left. Just you, Child, my son-in-law, indeed my son. You are more to me than my own children. Sometimes my empty heart is tormented, wondering why Robert didn't turn out like you." She paused a moment. Then: "I often say to myself: An imperfect seedling will die before it bears fruit. Indeed it hurts, Child, to have to accept that reality. And it is more painful still when my conscience accuses me of being unable to educate my own children. That is why I talk so much, lecture you so much."

She picked up the Soerabaiaasch Nieuws again and fanned herself with it. Only after a lengthy silence did her words come out, slowly and with conviction: “That Chinese boy knows how to learn from Europe, knows how to reject its sickness. He is no doubt a wise young man. He can be trusted much more than this newspaper,” and she threw the paper onto the table.

4

The atmosphere in that big house at Wonokromo became more oppressive every day. I didn't even want to write. The office work was equally uninteresting. Working near Mama, I felt like a dwarf at the back of a giant, a pebble at the foot of a mountain. I was insignificant, my individuality drowned in the immensity of her thinking.

If I allowed things to go on like this, I would surely end up overpowered by her and in her shadow. I had already made up my mind to leave this place—Wonokromo, Surabaya—forever. But whenever my eyes fell upon this extraordinary woman, who, like me, had lost so much, I could not bring myself to carry out my decision. How lonely she would be without me. There would be no one to talk to, no one she could confront with her toughness of mind. She would be like a rock of coral in the middle of the ocean.

I must go; I must become an individual in my own right, my growth not stunted because of someone else's sun-obstructing shadow.

Then one day in her office I told her of my intentions: “When Panji Darman returns, Ma, I will be leaving.”

I had not reckoned on how much I would regret saying that. She looked so sad and pained. She groped for something in one of her desk drawers to try to hide her face. “I have no right to hold you back, Child. But you must know that your place here cannot be filled by anyone else, not even Panji Darman.”

She could not make herself accept my leaving.

Suddenly she asked, as if she had just finished making a judgment on the way she had treated me all this time: “What is it you really want?” “I just want to get away from Surabaya, Ma, to Betawi perhaps. I think I will do some more study, some real study, so that one day maybe I can become like Dr. Martinet.” “If you leave now, Child, with your heart still wounded and in turmoil as it is…no, don't. You will never be able to study. You'll end up just wandering around like a drifter. You won't find what you're looking for. You'll be even more depressed. Stay here until you feel better. You'll be better able to decide what to do.” Then she was silent.

There was an agreement between the two of us not to think back on what had happened to Annelies, or at least not to talk about her. Even Dr. Martinet, who started to visit us again after the charges against him were dropped, never mentioned the subject of my late wife. It was even more the case with Darsam.

During a week-long trial, Darsam, who was charged with resisting the police and the Marechausee, managed to escape conviction. Now he went on with his daily work as if a person called Annelies, who had been so much a part of his life, had never existed.

Once every three days Darsam would come to me for lessons. He could not only read and write a little, but began to read the Malay-language newspapers, and he was learning arithmetic. Sometimes he would even force himself to study how to handle the office work.

On certain days he would go to Kalisosok jail to visit those who were imprisoned as a result of that earlier rioting when Annelies was taken away. Mama always examined the parcels that were going to them, and told Darsam to pass on her greetings. Once she even wanted to go herself, but Darsam forbade her.

About eighteen people had been caught in the fighting against the police. The sentences ranged from two to five years of hard labor, in chains. Their great sympathy and support for us was something we could never fully repay; all we could offer was our equally great gratitude and the monthly assistance Mama provided for their families. Yes, it was true: The river stones, pebbles, and rocks could also make their feelings known. Never belittle or scorn a single person, or even two, because every individual contains unlimited possibilities.

That morning too I sensed a loneliness in Mama's heart. To alter the mood, I summed up the courage to begin: “Ma, there was Annelies's hope, Ma, that Mama would give me a little sister, Ma. Shouldn't we respect that hope?" “Come here!” she said. She stood up and moved away from the desk. “Here is the key to the drawer. Open it and examine the letters inside.”

I didn't understand what she was getting at. I opened the drawer. Inside there were only letters. Some were tied together with thread. “Yes, read from that bundle.”

I pulled one out. The envelope hadn't been opened. From somebody with a European name, a cashier in a bank. “Read it,” she said. “The envelope hasn't been opened, Ma.” “Open it, and read it. No need to read it out to me, just read it for yourself.”

It proved to be a letter proposing marriage to Mama. “You can read them all; they're all the same. I've only read three of them. Count how many there are, Minke.”

I counted them one by one. Among the names I came across were: Doctor Frans Martinet, Controller H. Sneedijck, Lieutenant ter Zee Jakob de Haene...and also Kommer! My heart fluttered; maybe even Jean Marais's name would be among them. Letter by letter I counted, but his name wasn't there. Before I could total them up, Mama's voice came to me: "Enough, Child, put them back. What do you think?" “Mama is still young.” “When I see those letters, yes, I do feel young. How old is your mother?” “A little over forty I think,” I answered. “Then I would be her youngest sister.” “Mama, I'm glad Mama intends one day to carry out that hope.” “Yes, Minke, but my intentions are based on hard calculations. Life like this is so lonely. But who knows how long a human being will live? So it is you, who are with me now, whom I value most of all. It is you who I hope has learned from these last experiences. Don't worship Europe in its totality. There is good as well as evil everywhere. There are angels and devils everywhere. There are devils with the faces of angels, and angels with the faces of devils everywhere. And there is one thing that stays the same, Child, that is eternal: The colonialist is always a devil. “You live in a colonial world, you can't get away from that. But it doesn't matter, as long as you understand: He is a devil until the end of the world. He is Satan.”

I heard the bitterness in her words. I recognized that she was confronting an enemy who could be neither opposed nor threatened, a devil immune to insults, blows, tears, or pain. “If you understand and know the satanic nature of colonialism, then any action you take against it will be justified, except collaboration with it.” She blew out a great breath. “Mama.” “Yes?” “What do you mean by colonial?” “It's something that must be not only explained but also experienced. You will never understand by reading alone. I've already tried to find it in the dictionaries, Child, three dictionaries. All in vain.” “It should be able to be explained, Ma.” “I can't. It is you who should be able to explain it.” “What if we define it as 'that which has the character of conquest.'” Mama laughed. I was glad to see her laugh but my heart was not really happy, for she was laughing at me. She went on, ignoring my suggestion. "Everybody in authority praises that which is colonial. That which is not colonial is considered not to have the right to life, including Mama here. Millions upon millions of people suffer silently, like the river stones. You, Child, must at least be able to shout. Do you know why I love you above all others? Because you write. Your voice will not be silenced and swallowed up by the wind; it will be eternal, reaching far, far into the future. As to defining what is colonial, isn't it just the conditions insisted upon by a victorious nation over the defeated nation so that the latter may give the victor sustenance—conditions that are made possible by the sharpness and might of weapons?"

How confusing were this morning's experiences. Everything was indistinct and without a central focus. Every issue and problem was traveling about, crossing back and forth over previous paths, without direction. “Your hopes for me are too great, Mama.” “No. You have only one deficiency. You don't really know what the word colonial means. You must learn to understand. Your new Chinese acquaintance—what's his name again?" “Khouw Ah Soe, Mama.” “A very difficult name. From what I can tell from your story about him, he has come to understand that which you don't yet understand.” “But China has never been conquered, Ma.” “Every nation that is backward is conquered and colonized by every nation that has progressed.”

That morning's conversation, cluttered with crisscrossing traffic heading in no particular direction, was followed by a mutual silence.

Then one evening Khouw Ah Soe arrived. It was obvious he was in trouble. He was still wearing the same Shantung silk pajamas, but they were dirty and torn.

We sat in the small garden next to my room, on the concrete bench. Mama observed his round face intently (it was no longer reddish, but already going brown), as well as his thin reddish pigtail, his narrow eyes. I heard her mumble in Dutch: “So young, leaving country and family, to come so far—what for?”

Khouw Ah Soe bent to catch her words, then said he was sorry, he didn't understand. I put it into English. “Thank you very much for such kind words. Thank you.”

Unasked, I became the interpreter. “My child here is confused, Mr. Khouw, after reading the report published about you. It was the opposite of what he wrote.” “Only to be expected.” “Not that. I worried that you would be angry with my son.” “No. That's the way it had to be. Their own actions will educate the people to hate them and oppose them—that has also been the case with the Western enclaves in China.” “My Child had already sent a letter of protest...tell him yourself, Child.”

Khouw Ah Soe laughed happily on hearing my story, as if he wasn't at that moment being harried by his own troubles. Then he added: “That is how they are—those who hold power in the conquered nations. It is sickening to witness the behavior of those whites who live in countries they consider to be their colonies. To hope for anything else from them is a big mistake.” “Yes,” added Mama, “my guess is proved correct, Child. But don't translate that for him. This person is very clever. You can learn much from him.”

Khouw Ah Soe looked at me, waiting for the translation. “Mama says,” I said, “that you are now in trouble because of the Soerabaiaasch Nieuws. Mama guesses you would find it difficult to find anywhere to stay.”

Khouw Ah Soe offered neither a denial nor an affirmation. He dropped his gaze to the floor. At once we understood that things were as we imagined. Someone strong like him would not get into some minor, trifling trouble. His problem would be that he had run out of friends. “Let me arrange a place for him in Darsam's house,” Mama said. Then she excused herself.

Khouw Ah Soe continued his talk. I listened carefully to his every word. "How happy I am to have met your mother-in-law—a very advanced woman." He tapped on the table as a way of channeling his nervousness. “You will stay here, in Darsam's place. He is a fighter.” “The Darsam who was arrested by the Marechausee? He's free?”

Perhaps Darsam too had been mentioned in the newspapers of foreign lands to the north. “No doubt he is a fighter,” he suddenly affirmed. It seemed he didn't know what else to say. He was nervous.

Not long after arriving in Surabaya he received news: A comrade who had been sent to Fiji had been murdered. Another who had been sent to South America was found murdered not far from the saltpeter mines of Chile.

Finally I summoned the courage to ask: “What is it that you actually do?” “Call out, no more than that. Call out to my fellow countrymen who have wandered overseas that the times have changed, that China is no longer the center of the world, that China has made great contributions to human civilization, but that it is not the only civilized nation in the world, as so many Chinese believe.”

So they were like my own people, I thought, the Javanese, who looked upon themselves as the most polite, most civilized, and most noble of all people. A smile appeared on my face. “My fellow countrymen must come to realize it is not that the white people are superior; they are the ones who control the world, it is their countries that are the center of the world. Without that awareness they will never be shaken free from their wrong views and false dreams. Arise”—suddenly his voice became louder—“because the eastern peoples too can triumph in this new age. Look at Japan”—and his voice became softer—“but my fellow countrymen look upon the Japanese as a people of no consequence, a young people, a small nation, and always only pupils and imitators of China.”

On another occasion he condemned the backwardness of his fellow countrymen, especially those working overseas. They were not like the overseas Japanese, who always returned with some new learning, who humbly set out to learn all they could from the countries where they sought their livelihood, and who took home what they learned as a contribution to the development of their own nation and people. “I'm sorry, Minke, perhaps I'm too sentimental in the way I talk about Japan, and too enthusiastic when I talk about my own work.” “What's wrong with sentimentality and enthusiasm, if they're expressed at the right time and place? You will be safe here.”

He had run out of words, realizing that there was someone going out of his way to help him. He looked embarrassed and was silent.

Nyai invited him to eat, alone because we had already eaten. Afterwards I took him across to Darsam's house. The Madurese man greeted him by running about showing him where everything was: where the toilet was, which was the best way out of the complex if there was danger. I translated.

He thanked us over and over again with an elegant bow, not the Japanese bending that he used with Nijman. He thanked Darsam too for his help in overthrowing Ah Tjong's empire. But I didn't translate that.

Sitting in Darsam's front room, it seemed Khouw Ah Soe was able to wrest back his character, his confidence. Darsam didn't sit with us. Khouw Ah Soe spoke a great deal, for about two hours.

On my return to the main building I found Mama had not gone to bed. She wanted to hear what Khouw Ah Soe had said, and I told her. “To come to another country without knowing the language,” she commented, “just because he wants to help his people advance! Meeting danger after danger. Child, that's what a young person should be like. The Europeans came here as gangs of robbers and pirates. You must note the difference!"

Three days and nights he stayed with us.

From his other stories, I was able to gather that Nijman's guesses were not wrong. Almost everything Nijman had said was right.

He had left China with thirty or so others who headed east, west, southwest or south. He himself, a university student from Waseda, and four others, set off for the Indies. He entered through Bagansiapi-api in Sumatra by fishing boat from Singapore. Two of his friends headed for Pontianak in Netherlands Borneo. One stayed in Bagansiapi-api. He and one of his friends went to Betawi. His friend was left to work there. He himself made his way to Surabaya, an area known to be difficult to handle. Surabaya was the center for the Chinese gang, Tong, which, through its use of terror, controlled the lives of all the Chinese subjects of the Indies. The Tong gangs throughout the Indies were controlled from Surabaya. “Yes, the Japanese have even sent people overseas to learn to play and to make pianos—to Europe and to the United States.” He went on to tell how his people who went overseas weren't like that. They broke their backs all over the world for no other purpose than to accumulate wealth. Then they came home hoping only to be admired, and to rebuild the graves of their ancestors. And only to fall into the power of bandits, who squeezed money from them every month and every year. For all time, forever, they would be the milk cows of those bandits as well as of the Tong bandits. If the bandits weren't satisfied, their families at home would become the playthings of torment and torture.

In the end they once again left home, spreading out through the whole world, sucking up more of the world's wealth in order to please their bandit-ancestors. Not in order to build something grand, nor to convince the bandits that what China really needs is: Knowledge and learning; awareness of the need for change; and for a new man with a new spirit, ready to work for his people and his country.

So the children of the overseas Chinese must be prepared to receive a modern education. A great, a very great amount of money must be gathered. The tribute paid to the ancestral and Tong bandits must be stopped. Modern schools must be founded, both for now and for the future. If not, the country of his ancestors would be swallowed up by Japan, just as Africa has been swallowed whole by the English.

Even though his words sounded like an advertisement, they were interesting and impressive. “Every country in Asia that begins to rise and awaken is not just awakening itself, but is helping to awaken every other nation that has been left behind, including China.” “But science and learning are not the one and only key,” I said. “You are right,” he answered. “They are only the conditions. Equipped with modern science and learning, a wild beast will only become wilder and more bestial, and a vicious human will only become more vicious and cruel. But don't forget, with science and learning even the most wild and bestial of all animals can be made to submit. You know what I mean: Europe.”

The hair on the back of my neck stood up on hearing his last words. Mama would be quick to express her agreement with this young unsandaled sinkeh. “So don't hold out any hopes that a modern education will ever be given to the conquered countries, such as this country of yours. Only the conquered people themselves know what their country and people need. The colonizing nation will only suck up the honey of your land and the labor of your people. In the end it is the educated among the conquered people who need to recognize their responsibilities.” Suddenly he stopped, changing the subject: “You no doubt know what happened in the Philippines.”

His words came at me like an accusation. The Philippines was for me no more than a place on a map, a geographical location. The Philippines is not far from my own country but I knew almost nothing about it. “A pity, but no,” I answered.

He laughed and his narrow eyes disappeared completely from his face. His sparse pointed teeth emerged to represent his absent eyes. “They studied well from the Spanish, from Europe, even before the Japanese. Even before the Chinese. It is a pity they were a colonized people, unlike Japan. The Filipinos could not develop because they were colonized. The Japanese have developed—developed too well. The Filipinos were good pupils of the Spanish. And the Spanish were bad teachers, rotten and corrupting. But the Filipinos didn't just accept their teachings uncritically. The Filipinos are also great teachers for the other conquered peoples of Asia. They were the founders of the first Asian republic. And it collapsed. A great historical experiment.”

I watched his lips closely, and their movements, which seemed somehow not quite rapid enough. His pointed teeth rose and sank behind those lips. “So you don't know anything about the Philippines?” “Unfortunately, no. I only know there was a war between the Spanish and the Americans there.”

He laughed. “What's the matter?” “The Spaniards and the Americans—their war—it was all an act. There was no conflict between them; it was all to do with letting the Spaniards sell the Filipino people to the United States without having to lose face before the eyes of the world.” “How do you know all this?” “How? Wasn't all this reported in the newspapers?” “I've never come across any such reports.”

He nodded. “Don't university students here have their own newspapers? Oh, I'm sorry, there are no universities in the Indies yet, are there?” “So students have their own papers?” “Of course, newspapers that are devoted to ideals, not yet sidetracked by personal and vested interests.”

I couldn't say a thing. The way he linked one thing neatly with another made it seem they were indeed all entwined. His explanations rose before me as a great construction. I couldn't see through his argument. Yes, some great construction where every part contributed to strengthening every other part. All the peculiar things about him disappeared at that moment: his round and now brown face, his reddish pigtail...suddenly I was discovering something else about him that emanated from his presence. And that something was life itself. You could hear the groans, the cries and complaints, and the pounding of his heart; the glow and lightning brightness of his thoughts. I had never even thought about any of the issues he brought up. Now I could move on to imagine and wonder about many new things.

I told Mama all about it. She meditated for a moment. Her eyes glassed over in emotion, and finally tears made the journey across her cheeks. “He has shown us how Europe and America are no more than evil adventurers, Child. If they had no cannons, would anyone honor them?”

Before the guava-faced youth left our house, I felt I had to ask one more question: Was Nijman's report true, that he had been beaten up in the Kong Koan building? He confirmed it. “Dangerous work,” I commented. “There may be worse yet to come.” “You are not afraid?” “The Philippines cannot be forgotten, can they? Even if they were deceived by Spain and America? It is inevitable that other conquered peoples will follow in their footsteps. Yes, even in the Indies. If not now, then later, when people know how to handle their teachers.”

He left one dark night, refusing the use of a vehicle. He walked off to who knows where. He said he might return at any time to seek protection. Only Nyai and I knew of the help we had given him. He had needed friends and help.

I think I can say it was from Khouw Ah Soe that Mama and I heard for the first time about the awakening of a whole people, rising up, advancing and respected. building a modern culture and civilization.

I still remember those words of his, so beautiful, as if they came from some legend: “In the past peoples could live at peace in the middle of deserts and forests. Now they cannot. Science and modern learning will pursue everyone everywhere. Human beings, both as individuals and social beings, can no longer feel secure. Mankind is forever being pursued because modern science and learning constantly provide the inspiration and desire to control Nature and man together. There is no power that can bring to a halt this passion to control, except greater science and learning, in the hands of more virtuous people.”

The Surabaya newspapers reported that the police were busy with the hunt for illegal immigrants from China.

A Malay-Chinese newspaper published a report that quoted from a Chinese newspaper:

It is true that Khouw Ah Soe entered the Indies illegally. It is now also known that he entered the Indies with several others. There were reports that one of these was a girl, a graduate from the Catholic High School in Shanghai. They have all been using false names since they left the Chinese mainland. In Hong Kong, Khouw Ah Soe was known as Tjok Kiem Eng and was wanted by the Hong Kong police. He was the troublemaker responsible for the cutting off of pigtails along the pleasure waterways of Hong Kong. From Hong Kong, he ran to Hainan.

The paper also published some background. It was estimated that during the previous year 240 Chinese had entered the Indies illegally, and they were mainly concentrated in Bagansiapi-api and Pontianak. None of them spoke any Native language.

Not long after that there appeared another report:

Differing from most of the immigrants who came to the Indies, this small group of illegal immigrants did not become involved in the smuggling trade. Their intention was to create trouble in the Netherlands Indies by inciting the young people to defy their ancestors and their own parents.

They are anarchists, nihilists, good-for-nothing agitators....

And I myself?

After the appearance of Nijman's article about Khouw Ah Soe, I did not visit the editorial office again. Several times he wrote me letters in an attempt to win me back, saying forget it, forget it; if you come and see me, I will explain the whole matter to you. I did not go. Instead it was he who came to see me. Nyai did not come out to meet him.

He seemed much younger than usual. His clothes, even his shoes, were all brown. He took a parcel out of his briefcase and handed it to me. “You will find this book very interesting,” he said.

It was about America, a continent that was totally unknown to educated Natives, except for the names of a few people and places, some geography, and a little information about its produce. He didn't say anything more about the book. “I understand. You are very disappointed, perhaps even angry because of the interview affair. There was nothing else we could do. Look, this is your country, Mr. Minke. If you read this book, you will come to understand why America is thirsty for more inhabitants. It has vast areas of land, it is rich and empty. Different from Java, Mr. Minke. Fifteen years ago this country of yours had maybe only fourteen million people; now it is closer to thirty million. The land is shrinking because of the number of people. Some action must be taken against these illegal immigrants. It is in the interests of the Javanese themselves. If not, in just a few decades, this island could become just another little China. I'm sure that is not what you want.”

Another cause for anxiety! I'd never thought of it like that. On some other occasion I would discuss it with Khouw Ah Soe. “Look, Mr. Minke, although the Dutch are the rulers, you can see for yourself that there is no great stream of Dutch families coming out here. It has never been the intention of the Dutch to pour out here to set up a colony. Wasn't it right to publish this article, if it can help stop the flow of all these Chinese coming out to our country? The Netherlands Indies has spent great amounts of money for this purpose, working in your own interests, Mr. Minke!”

So far I had not found any ground upon which to stand and analyze this problem. All I could do was listen. “The recognition of Japan as an equal has produced a number of problems,” he went on. “The Chinese of Singapore have already become restless. We don't need that sort of thing in the Indies, especially not in Java. Be frank, Mr. Minke, do you agree with the ideas of Khouw Ah Soe?” “In some things he is right.” “Very true. But the truth does not necessarily bring any advantage.” He quickly set up defenses. “I think you would prefer to support your country than a truth that would hurt it.”

Another point that wasn't without grounds! I had never thought about any of this. I just had to listen.

He left after he was convinced that he had influenced me. I had to promise to bring some new articles to the paper.

Mama laughed when she heard the story. “You've forgotten already, Child; everything colonial is from the devil. There has never been any colonialist that has cared anything about our people. They are afraid of China itself. They're jealous.”

I forced myself to think how all these things came together: the progress Japan was making, the restlessness among the Chinese Young Generation, the rebellion of the Filipino natives against Spain and then the United States, the jealousy of the colonial Netherlands Indies towards China, the colonial hatred of Japan. And why wasn't the Filipino rebellion reported in all the newspapers?

And to the north, Siam was crying out because its silk, so popular in the Indies, was being pushed out of the market by Japan's cheaper and shinier silk. In the land of my own livelihood, Japanese handicrafts were surreptitiously entering the market. The Javanese makers of blouses, combs, and brushes were losing their share of the market, because the Japanese goods were cheaper and shinier. But the Javanese were silent. They did not cry out. They did not understand why their livelihood was drying up.

And the women of Southeast Asia could not live without combs, brushes, and tweezers to catch head lice—all made in Japan.

With my inner eye I scattered my vision over my own surroundings. There was no movement at all. All Java was fast asleep, dreaming. And I was confused, angry, aware but impotent.

5

Something completely unexpected happened: a letter arrived from Robert Mellema.

I was working in the office at the time. Mama called me from her desk and pushed the day's mail across for me to read. From Robert, from Panji Darman, from Miriam de la Croix.

There was no address on the envelope. On the stamp was a picture of the sea and coconut palms. The printing on the stamp said Hawaii. The postmark was illegible.

My faraway Mama, it started.

I didn't know why that phrase filled my heart with emotion and my eyes with tears. The cry of a regretful child. “What's the matter, Child?” asked Mama. “This letter is not for me, Ma. It is written for Mama and Mama alone.” “Read it,” she encouraged me. “I'll read it slowly, yes, Ma?” and I began to read aloud:

I know, Ma, that you will probably never forgive me. That's up to you. Even so, Ma, your son Rob, so far away now, begs your forgiveness, both in this world and the next. Ma, my Mama. Sun, moon, and stars have all been witnesses to my sins against you.

And what meaning does my life have now? As low as your work might ever be, you will always be far more honorable than this child of yours, who has fought against you and caused you much sorrow.

I have heard the village people say: The greatest forgiveness is that which a child asks of his mother; the greatest of all sins is that of a child against his mother. I am the most sinful of children, Ma. Your son Robert needs your most profound forgiveness.

I glanced from the corners of my eyes at Mama. The look on her face hadn't changed. She kept on with her work, calmly, as if she weren't listening.

I know my Mama so well, so I know you won't want to read these writings of mine. No matter. That is a risk I must take. What is important is that at least there has arisen the intent to ask forgiveness of the person who gave birth to me, who has shed blood for me, who has groaned with pain for my life's sake, and that intent has now been put into words. So if you do not answer this letter or even if you don't read it, if I remain alive, I will know you have forgiven me, even though you may never say it. If I die in the near future, that will be a sign that you did not forgive me.

Once, on a ship, someone said to me: You can ask forgiveness of God at any time at all, if you sin against Him. Sins against your fellow man are different again; it is much more difficult to get him to forgive you. God is all-compassionate; mankind is uncompassionate.

I am not telling you where I am. What would be the point? It would only cause problems. I am on a ship. And I don't need to give its name, nationality, or the flag it is flying under.

After what happened in Ah Tjong's house, I ran. By chance a horse cart was passing by. I jumped aboard and headed for Tanjung Perak. I was able to get aboard a junk heading for Manila. I did whatever work I was given, even that of cleaning the toilets—everyone's toilet, not just the one I used myself.

Complete humiliation—that is the condition that befell me as soon as I was away from you, my Mama. I could do nothing to resist what befell me. I had to stay alive. And what kind of life is it, Ma, crawling around people's toilets like this?

I was only a few days in Manila. Attacks by bandits threw the whole harbor into confusion. Many sailors disappeared without a trace. From Manila I traveled on board a small ship to Hong Kong. In that small, crowded city I got a job as a gardener in the house of an English officer. Soon after, he found out that I had caught a certain disease and he threw me out.

Yes, Ma, I am ill. The easiest thing for me to do was to visit a sinshe, a Chinese medicine man. He said I had caught a “dirty disease” and that it was getting worse. I handed myself over to him. He treated me with potions and acupuncture until I looked fresh and healthy again. In the meantime I had become a vagabond, owning nothing at all. All I had was the clothes on my body. This is all a punishment from Mama, so I must accept it.

Because I could no longer pay the sinshe, I had to find another job on a ship. I was amazed that I was still allowed to live. I sailed all over the world, going from ship to ship. No one recognized or knew me, because I always used different names. People didn't care whether I was human, animal, or devil.

But then the symptoms returned. I did everything I could to avoid destruction. As soon as I was in Hong Kong again I looked up the man who had treated me before. Treat me until I am cured, I begged. But he told me something new: The disease can only be controlled; there is no real cure. I knew I would be tied to him forever. It's not that I didn't try the doctors. None of them were able to help me, not even to ease the suffering a bit. My heart shriveled up—all I could see hovering before me was death. Mama, it was you, Mama, that I then remembered. Nothing can help me except your forgiveness.

My illness meant I had to stay close to my sinshe in Hong Kong. I had to have more money. He said I would have to visit him at last once a month. My livelihood was not so generous to bring me to Hong Kong every month. And to work in Hong Kong itself was not easy for me, because I didn't want to be known to anybody as the child of anybody, the citizen of any country. I had no address and did not want to have an address.

Mama, I know my disease is a death sentence for me.

I talked to another medicine man and his words frightened me: There is no cure, he said; there is no one strong enough to survive for more than two years. How frightening, Ma, two years for someone as young as me. Mama, my Mama...

Nyai Ontosoroh stood up and left. Before leaving the room, she turned to me and said: “There are some other letters. For you.”

I didn't go on reading Rob's letter. I picked up the other letters from Mama's desk. From Betawi, from the Stovia Medical School: I had been accepted as a student beginning the next academic year; details were to follow.

Was it Robert's letter or the one from Stovia that made Mama so unhappy that she had to leave the room? I didn't know.

There was a letter from Robert to Annelies. Suddenly I realized that he knew nothing of what had happened to the family. The letter carried the same stamp as the first one. There was no date nor mention of place.

Ann, Annelies, my little sister. I have now traveled around the world as I once dreamed of doing. More than twice, Ann. I have set my feet down in all the great ports of the world. And I have met with too many people. Not one has ever invited me to visit their house. They all look upon me as being not of the same species, from a people too far away and too strange, perhaps like a race of animals.

I had wanted to be a sailor. Now I am a sailor. But I am not happy. Even in the most meaningless of jobs, I am still considered incapable. My thoughts are always going back and forth between Mama and you. You know the reasons. Until now you have refused to talk to me. Yes, Ann, I understand, understand only too well. And I know too why people never invite me to their houses. Your brother is indeed not worthy of being spoken to by you. He is only an animal, lower still than the horses you ride.

The incident in the reed-marshes continues to haunt me. Forgive me, Ann, forgive me....

At that moment I had to stop reading a moment and reflect again on Annelies's story. So it was true, what she'd told me, that she had been raped by her brother. I read on.

I pray always that you may be happy, Ann. Perhaps indeed Minke is the right man for you, despite Suurhof's making fun of him. I think Robert Suurhof will turn out to be no better than me.

I have seen all kinds of people now, Ann: Indians, Chinese, Europeans, Japanese, Arabs, Hawaiians, Malays, Africans...and Ann, there is none among their women, young or old, as beautiful as you, as glorious as you. You are a pearl among women. Your husband will be such a happy man....

I shoved the letter quickly into my pocket. No, I must not think about Annelies anymore.

When Mama came back in, she did not ask anything. She sat down and continued her work. I went on reading Robert's letter to her.

My contract with life is for two years, Ma. Who knows whether the sinshe's prediction will turn out to be right. When I left him, I swore that once I boarded a ship, I would never set foot on land again. I will stay on board until I receive your forgiveness.

The letter ended. “Where should I put the letter, Ma?” “Burn it. What's the use of saving such a letter?” she said without lifting her eyes, without diverting her attention from the papers before her.

So I put it in my pocket as well. There was indeed an extraordinary amount of mail that day. There was a letter from Panji Darman addressed to me:

Minke, my good friend, There is something I must tell you; I think you should know it. But first, forgive me, as I don't know whether this is the right time to tell you or not.

I was walking one day in the Java Docks at Amsterdam harbor. I saw a young, strong worker, and he clearly wasn't a Pure-Blood Dutchman. He was pushing a cart. Do you know who he was? Robert Suurhof! He stopped, startled at seeing me. He pulled down his hat to hide his eyes. He was ashamed of his work. Then he went back to pushing the cartload of goods. I called out to him. He kept on going.

I followed him and called out again: “Rob! Rob Suurhof! Don't tell me you've forgotten me already?”

He stopped, turned, greeted me: “You? When did you arrive? It's a pity I'm working just now. Come to my place later. After seven in the evening, all right?”

He gave me an address. And I never found that address, let alone the person. I went again to the wharves. I asked several people whether they knew a harbor worker, a young Indisch. I knew Suurhof was registered as a Dutch citizen, but his citizenship could be of no use for identification here. They didn't know what I meant by Indisch or Indies Native. A laborer, a youth, and dark, I said. They mentioned several names but none of them was Robert Suurhof. There is no one by the name of Robert Suurhof known here, they said. There was one worker from the Indies, someone said, dark, not called Suurhof, but he was arrested about three days ago by the police. He was working in the Java Docks at the time.

I went to the Harbor District Police Station. It was true; Suurhof had been arrested and was being returned to the Indies. They said he was suspected of assault and robbery in Surabaya.

He may already be back in Surabaya by the time you receive this letter, Minke.

I have also met Miss Magda Peters. I will tell you about it another time. I will write to Mama about things to do with her new company, Speceraria.

My greetings and respect to her and to you too.

The letter from Miriam de la Croix was from the Netherlands. There was also a letter from Herbert de la Croix with it. Here is what it said:

My dear Mr. Minke, With this letter, both Miriam and I, even if somewhat belatedly, take our leave of you. We have left the Indies and are now in the Netherlands. We are truly saddened by all that has befallen you and your family. We ourselves are very much to blame for what happened to you all, though our intentions were good and honorable....

I stopped reading and thought over each incident again. There were no grounds for Herbert de la Croix and his daughter to feel they shared any blame. Why, they had gone as far as sending us a famous jurist, even though he had failed. And why was their letter so excessively polite? They had defended me when I was dismissed from school, they had helped me to obtain a place in the Civil Service Academy at Stovia. They had kept up correspondence with me all this time. Mr. de la Croix himself had even put his position on the line over my case. They had no reason to feel guilty.

Mr. Minke, the governor-general very quickly issued my discharge papers; we then left for Europe. The three of us are together as one again. Whatever has happened, my dear Mr. Minke, whatever I have experienced, it is nothing and indeed means nothing compared to what you have suffered, or what was suffered by your beloved teachers, Multatuli and Roorda van Eysinga.

All these events have come and gone so quickly. There has been almost no opportunity to follow them properly or reflect upon them.

Before we finish this letter we need to let you know that the request for a place for you at Stovia has been approved. You may start there next academic year. If you don't wish to do so because you are still upset by the events of recent times, you only need to write to the school and cancel your enrollment.

Greetings and respects from Sarah, Miriam, and myself. May you triumph in life. Adieu.

There was a letter from Mother but I pocketed it too. I would read it later.

Miriam's letter was different again:

Minke, I don't feel right writing to you about serious issues while you're still in mourning. But at a meeting of housewives in my neighborhood, someone read out one of Raden Adjeng Kartini's letters to Miss Zeehandelaar. People were dumbfounded to hear her reports of life among the Javanese. Relations between men and women seemed so strange and tense. In the discussion that followed, I concluded: Javanese women were living in darkness. Kartini's version did differ from what I knew of the life of Javanese village women, though, of course, I never witnessed it myself. Our servants used to tell how the women would sing while planting or harvesting, and how their men would carry off the harvested paddy. And how the little children would play under the full moon singing praises to the rice goddess…. Perhaps Kartini knew nothing of all this.

But I didn't say anything that would change the women's response to Kartini's letters. The gloom of the letters might make it easier for them to sympathize with the plight of Javanese women, and with Kartini herself.

Actually I had planned to bring up your case for discussion at the meeting. Father also agreed, as did Sarah too. Yours was the only such case during the whole of the nineteenth century. They would be interested. The story of the love between an educated Native and a Mixed-Blood girl, which proved to involve many issues that could just as easily have taken place in Europe itself.

I was determined to call out their Christian and European consciences. I was convinced I would succeed. I must admit: It wasn't the time or place to divert people's attention from Kartini and her problems.

The ladies were completely amazed to hear of a Native Javanese woman writing in their language. They had always thought of Native woman as still living in the Stone Age.

And you, my friend, how are you? Someone like you—young, strong, educated—will surely be able to face all things with great resolve. We all have faith in you. And we all believe we will meet with you again one day in circumstances much, much happier than those of today. We believe this, Minke. In the end, all was created by God for us to share. And there is no happiness without testing.

And for Kartini too, I pray that she will pass all her tests, because beyond those tests lies the garden of happiness.

You're not bored with my letter yet, are you? And can you sense how the length of this letter is a symptom of how I miss the Indies, how I miss Java? You can, can't you? You surely must be able to sense it.

If I may make a suggestion, Minke, you should correspond with that extraordinary girl Kartini. It would not be difficult to find out her address, because she is the daughter of the Bupati of Jepara. I am also going to try to write to her.

Our new life in the Netherlands, just as in Java, has its ups and downs, as is the case with people's lives everywhere. Do you know, Minke, the Germans and English and French are racing to make all kinds of machines that will help make life more comfortable for people? There are people racing to make a machine that will replace the horse carriage, not so huge as a train, and it will be able to travel on ordinary roads.

It seems that the fever to discover new things, new tools, will not allow people to be satisfied with how things are. People are entranced and possessed by everything that is new; new etiquette, new behavior. Women are beginning to lose their shyness and are riding bicycles in the evenings. New, new, new, new! People forget that life basically stays the same, the same as yesterday. New, new, new—anything that is not new is looked upon as a remnant of the Middle Ages. People have become so childish, like little schoolchildren, thinking that with these new things life will be better than yesterday. This is the modern age! Anything that is not new is looked upon as being out of date, suitable only for peasants and villagers. People have been so easily lulled they ignore the fact that behind all these shouts, these urgings, this madness for what is new, there stands a supernatural power whose appetite for victims is never satisfied. This magical power is the columns of protozoa, of figures, which are called capital.

In the Indies, Minke, it is different than in Europe. In the Indies people stand helpless before the might of authority. In Europe people collapse before these rows of constantly multiplying protozoa called capital. Under the banner of furthering science and service to humanity, there are people racing to discover how to make a machine that, together with its passengers, will be able to traverse the heavens, physically overcoming all distance. There is a report from another country that there are others who have caught a fever to make a vessel that can take people to the floor of the oceans. There are even predictions that it will not be long before mankind not only has control over new sources of power but will have mastered vibrations to reach a certain destination.

You were right, Minke, the nature and countenance of mankind stays the same, no better than what it was before. The sermons in the churches continually remind us of that. Man remains a being that does not really know what it wants. The busier people become with their searching and their discoveries, the clearer it becomes that they are in fact being pursued by the anxiousness of their own hearts.

You still blame Europe. Naturally I could not bring myself to fault you for this after your recent experiences. If you lived in Europe for one or two years, though, perhaps your views might change. The percentage of those who are evil is probably the same as among your own people. Only the conditions of life are different. When I listen to Papa's stories from the Babad Tanah Jawi, it is not rare for me to shiver in horror at the viciousness, barbarism, and cruelty: all a luxury, Minke, and all only to achieve control of that small island called Java. I am of the same opinion as Papa: There was indeed a time and an era when Europe was no different from what is described in the Babad. Only I hope you don't forget one thing, Minke. At the time the Babad was being compiled, your people were still worshipping individual all-powerful rulers, while the European nations were gradually forming world empires. The world for your people is Java. Take a look at the names of the kings of Java, even those who still live today. Inscribed in them is always a sense of them constituting the whole universe.

What I am getting at, Minke, is that the Javanese view of things, from the very first time foreigners set foot in your country, had already been left far behind in Europe. It is not true that Java and the Indies were taken over by Europe purely because of Europe's greed. The problem in the first place was the warped attitude of the people of Java and the Indies towards the world. I, of course, worry that all this stems from Papa's opinions, because he is more accomplished in reading classical Javanese literature, but I agree with what he says.

If, for example, the Javanese and the Indies peoples had been more advanced than Europe and had sailed to Europe and conquered it, do you think Europe would have been a happy place? I really believe, Minke, no one could doubt that any occupation of Europe by the Javanese would have been far more brutal than what you are experiencing now. The European nations have studied the character and capabilities of the Indies Natives, while on the other hand the Natives hardly know anything about Europe. Come to the Netherlands, Minke; you will be astounded to see the collection of material we have about the thinking of your ancestors, beginning with what was chiseled onto stone up until what was inscribed onto palm leaves. And none of it, not one thing, was saved by its heirs, your people, but by Europeans, Minke, Europeans.

I don't know whether these notes of mine are representative of European thinking or not. Even so, allow me to consider them a European girl's ideas about the Indies Natives. So, Minke, let us work together to do whatever is good for Java, the Indies, Europe, and the world. We will fight European, Javanese, Indies, and the world's evil together. Let us provide Europe, Java, the Indies, and the world with a healthier understanding as was struggled for by the great humanists, and particularly Multatuli, who suffered so much in life.

I am now throwing myself into social and political activities. Sarah has gone on to Teachers' College. In other letters we will discuss new issues. Like Papa, I call out to you: Be triumphant in your life! From Miriam far away near the North Pole...

How adroit was this girl. I didn't really know what her situation was like, but I was sure life in the Netherlands would not be as easy as it was here. The three of them would have to struggle to keep their heads above water. Yet she still possessed her adroitness as well as her faith in the gloriousness of the future. She accepts all of life's difficulties and tries to overcome them. Maybe, in that way, all troubles become a sport to exercise brain and muscles. Difficulties make her stronger, not weaker. Her resilience aroused me from my depression. She was truly clever to be able to sweep the cloud from my mind. Very well, I will accept that you represent Europe, Mir, represent Europe's view of the reality of the Indies today. You represent the good side of Europe, Mir. Perhaps—and this is closer to the truth—you represent your own idealization of Europe. I will answer your letter, Mir.

I don't know how long I had been sitting thinking. Mama spoke: “What are you thinking about now, Child?” “Ma?” “I've been watching you lately. You've lost your liveliness. I know things have been difficult lately. Even so, I don't think you need become a daydreamer. I've got an idea, Child: Have you ever thought about getting married again?"

A shameful question. I knew what she intended, of course: She was trying to stop me leaving Surabaya and Wonokromo. I was her son-in-law, but the question still struck my ears as going too far, not right or proper, as if I were someone who'd never set foot in a European school. And before I could reassert my dignity, she spoke again: “I can't look at those eyes of yours—so depressed. You must try much harder, much, much harder to forget the past.”

This humoring of each other was beginning to seem like a game of handball. “Does it still look like I haven't begun to forget, Ma?” “You don't read seriously any more, you don't write, you're not your old spirited self. Sometimes you pick up a newspaper, but then only read a little bit here and there. Your thoughts are all over the place, Child.” “Mama doesn't seem as fresh as before,” I said, hoping to end the ball game. “Of course. Not without reason. I was born earlier. But I have decided what to do.” “When Panji Darman returns—” “No need to await Panji Darman's return. I have a suggestion, Child. Will you accompany me on a trip out of town? Perhaps our mood will change as a result.” “Of course, Ma, I'd like that very much. In the meantime perhaps Panji Darman will return.” “And then will you go to Betawi?” “I think so, Ma.” “You're the wrong kind of person to be a doctor. You know Dr. Martinet. What was he able to do when we were in trouble? You were able to do much more than he to defend us, even though we were defeated in the end. I value the work you do much more than the work of a doctor.” “Let it be, Ma. At least I can study and have a livelihood at the same time.” “You don't really believe your own words. Panji Darman will not be returning quickly. According to his latest telegram he has had to postpone his departure again.” “Yes, Ma, maybe it would be good if we took a holiday. Mama has never taken time off from work. But who will look after things while we're away?” “Darsam.” “Darsam? What can he do?” “Don't be insulting. He has a lot of experience now, except in the office. I want to try him, so he begins to know what a headache it is to have to manage everything.” “Do you dare do it?” “He must begin sooner or later. Someone as loyal as he is must be encouraged, be given an opportunity. He has a sharp sense of who is a good foreman and who isn't.” “But office work?” “He must be given a chance to do that too. The correspondence can afford to stop for a few days.” “You really dare do it?”

For the first time a big smile appeared on Mama's face. Her teeth gleamed. She had decided a long time ago to take a holiday. Now she wanted to carry out that decision. Do it without hesitation or doubt. “Forget those letters. Forget them all,” she said. “What's life for anyway? Not for taking on a whole lot of unnecessary worries.”

6

I went to Jean Marais's place to see how far he had gotten with his painting of Annelies. He had refused to copy from a photograph. “With Annelies,” he said one time, “I am going to paint her exactly as you and I knew her—not just as we saw her, but as we really knew her, when she was at her peak.” And so he painted from memory alone. A month had passed and the picture was still not ready. He was working on it when I arrived.

Out of a gloomy Rembrandt-like background there emerged the face of my angel, like the moon coming out from behind clouds. Yes, it was only that overcast that had threatened her life—so young, pure, beautiful, without equal. I saw once again that hair of hers which I had so many times caressed, the smoothness of her clear skin, the almost imperceptible furrows on her forehead. She was my wife, my Annelies, always so spoiled with my embraces. “When it's finished,” said Jean, “you mustn't put the picture up for everybody to see, Minke.” “I've got to just store it away?” “Put it in the most beautiful cover you can find. You don't need to look at it again. You could go mad.”

Jean Marais wasn't talking nonsense. Every time I looked at that unfinished picture my heart started to gallop and my thoughts began to wander. “Put it in a cover of beautiful grape-red velvet, Minke. I will make one for you.” “Will it be ready, do you think, when I leave Surabaya?” “So it's true you're going to Betawi?” “I have the right to grow and develop too, don't I?” “You are right, Minke; while you are too close to Nyai you will not develop.” He smiled broadly, but I didn't know what he was smiling at. “You haven't the same charisma. You need to be in another place, another region, breathing other air, with other opportunities, other possibilities.”

He wouldn't let go when I excused myself. "Don't rush off. There is something else." “How is May doing at school?” “She seems a bit behind.” “Perhaps she's too busy at home, Jean.” “Perhaps. What's the point of being clever if you're not happy at home? Learning to work is also important—learning to build a life. School is no more than something to finish things off, isn't it?” “When I have a child, perhaps I will think the same way.” “There's no need to copy me. My outlook is based upon this deformity of mine. Without her near me I feel so alone. What do you think of this picture, Minke?” “You're brilliant, Jean.” “I have never painted so well. It should be hanging on the walls of the Louvre. You must see Paris, Minke: The palaces, gardens, statues, the most beautiful works of art in the history of mankind—the most beautiful and most grand, the biggest churches. There is nothing that rivals them… I'm sorry, I shouldn't boast about the achievements of my own ancestors.” “Keep going, Jean. France is indeed greatly admired, by my teachers at school too. I am only their student and haven't ever been to France.” “A guest will be arriving soon.” Jean Marais turned the line of conversation. “Kommer. Maybe another ten minutes. You should see him.” “So he comes here often?” “We have a little business together. He's asked me to design a trap to catch a black panther,” he said, continuing with his painting.

There was a sound of footsteps, and Kommer walked in carrying a leather briefcase. He shook hands with me. When he offered his hand to Jean, he didn't take it, just nodded. “You're angry with me?” asked Kommer. “It's not a good idea to shake hands with a painter at work, Kommer.” He smiled.

Kommer laughed: “You believe in that superstition?” “It's not that. The paint has poison in it. Let me wash my hands first.” “And how are you, Mr. Minke?” asked Kommer. “You haven't written anything for a long time.”

Jean hobbled back and straight away butted in: “Mr. Kommer, Minke was once very angry with me for doing no more than suggesting he write in Malay. You try to talk to him.”

Now I was being incited to explode again, after my disappointment with Nijman. I attacked: “What can you say in Malay? An impoverished language like that? Riddled with borrowed words from every country in the world? And even to say 'I am not an animal,' you need all these borrowed words.” “Very true.” Kommer smiled broadly. From out of his bag he took several newspapers and put them on the table. “Look, Mr. Minke. This is the Pelapor Betawi. This is the Bintang Surabaya from Surabaya. Of course you must know it, or at least have heard its name. This is the Taman Sari. This new newspaper, the Penghantar, is from faraway Ambon. In Javanese? You can see for yourself, here—Retno Doemilah, Djawi Kondo. This one is in Malay, from East Sumatra, Percikan Barat. Nah, here is a pile of auction and advertisement papers. All published in Surabaya. You know them all. Study them page by page. All of them owned by Dutchmen, Eurasians, and one of them, Percikan Barat, by a Chinaman.”

I couldn't see where his chattering was leading. “Yes, Minke, it is not Natives who feel it is important to report the news in Malay or Javanese. Fantastic, isn't it, Mr. Minke. Not Natives. And it isn't Natives either who feel it is important to encourage Malay and Javanese to develop and grow as languages. An impoverished language? Certainly. Everything is born into this world with no more than a body and a spirit. You are no exception to that rule.”

My heart no longer felt incited to explode. The reality of it all was making me gasp. “I myself have just started with the Primbon Soerabaya. Just forget my own involvement in it for a moment. Take a look for yourself at all these newspapers that are introducing the Natives to a wider world, to the world of humanity. Looked at in that way, can't you agree that their contribution to the advancement of Natives is indeed outstanding? Even though the Natives don't recognize that contribution or feel they're being helped? Especially when none is able to afford a subscription so that they have to join together to be able to read them?”

It seemed Kommer's speech was going to go on and on, even though it was helping me to understand the situation of the Malay press. “Nah! Minke, it's not me that's talking now. It's Mr. Kommer.” Once again Jean began to interfere. “If you still want to be angry, be angry with him.”

But I wasn't angry, just bored. Kommer's way of presenting things was different and didn't anger me: He was actually inviting me to understand the issues. Then the Eurasian Mixed-Blood journalist arranged all the papers in such a way that they just called out to be read. My hands grasped out at one page, another page, and another page. I examined their appearance and typography, the columns, bent and untidily joined together, the wavelike lines, the uneven print. “The typography!” I protested. “Yes. Still not very good. The Dutch papers aren't perfect yet either. The point is the things that can be passed on to the Malay reader—issues that touch significantly the interests of the readers themselves. Not just things affecting Europeans.”

I understood all that he was saying. But my heart still wouldn't accept it. “You could begin to learn to write in Malay, Minke,” Jean Marais began again. “Yes, you can see for yourself”—now Kommer got his bit in—“Malay is understood and read in every town, big and small, throughout the Indies. Dutch is not.”

I was still examining the Malay-language newspapers. There were too many advertisements and the serialized stories took too prominent a place on the front page. They all carried serials, most of them foreign. “It won't be long, Mr. Minke. Once you begin writing in Malay, you'll soon discover the key to it. That you have mastered Dutch so well is, of course, deserving of great admiration. But to write in Malay, your own people's language, is a sign of your love for your country and people.”

All of a sudden he stopped. He was probably preparing a whole new set of demands. So it was not only Mother, but also Jean Marais, also Kommer, who were making demands of me. And now Kommer—a person whose origins I knew nothing about at all—had appeared before me like a prosecutor with a shortage of victims. And I was not angered. But if I accepted these demands now, there could be no doubt that tomorrow or the day after other new demands would follow. “Are you making demands of me, Mr. Kommer?” “Yes, I think, indeed, that is the case.” “And do I not have the right to reject them?” “Of course, Mr. Minke. He who emerges at the top of his society will always face demands from that society—it is his society that has allowed him to rise. You must know the Dutch proverb, 'The tall tree catches much wind.' If you don't want to catch so much wind, don't grow so tall.” “Where is there a tall tree that can turn away the wind?” Jean Marais backed Kommer up. “The important thing, Mr. Minke, is loyalty to one's own country and people.”

This Eurasian Mixed-Blood was getting more and more out of hand in his rudeness. Mother had argued the same point without pressuring or pushing. Kommer was not just asking, hoping, demanding. He was pushing me into a corner. And still he didn't seem satisfied. He added: “Who gives a damn if Europeans want to read Malay or not? Just think about it: Who will urge Natives to speak out if their own writers, such as yourself, won't do it?” “Why do you write in Malay, Kommer?” It was my turn to interrogate. “You are not a Native. You're more European than Native.”

He laughed. He didn't answer quickly. The whole of my attention was focused on him. The skin of his face, burned by the sun, shone with sweat. He groped in his pocket for a handkerchief, but he didn't wipe his face. He rubbed his lips and the tips of his teeth. With a smile that was both a little upset and a little amused, he said, "Look, Mr. Minke, lineage is not important. Loyalty to this country and people, sir. This is my country and my people, not Europe. Only my name is Dutch. It is not impossible for a non-Native to love this country and people. Look around you. Natives are so still, so quiet, so alone—they never speak with anyone outside themselves. Day and night their lives revolve around just one pivot, in the same space, in the same circle. Busy with their own dreams. Just the same thing over and over again. I'm sorry."

His words were becoming more twisted and winding. And I was more and more caught up by them: “An unbearable life, Mr. Minke. Anyone who is aware of this condition must surely try to speak to them. To speak face to face face with such a huge number of people is, of course, impossible. That is why I write, one person speaking to many."

Whether he knew it or not, he was lighting my way, my life as a writer. I saw him anew, as a teacher without a name, a great man without origins. I respected him, even loved him, as if he were a part of my own body and brain. He had no hesitation in stating ideas he felt were true. He was a little prophet. “Minke,” Jean Marais interrupted again, “I can't express myself well. Mr. Kommer speaks for me also. I too have hopes for you—my heart still can't bring itself to demand—you must speak to your own people. You are needed by your own people much more than you are needed by any other people anywhere. Europe and Holland will not miss your absence.” He was silent a moment as he looked at me, waiting for my anger to sweep down upon his head. “See, you aren't angry with Mr. Kommer, are you?” He was silent again, awaiting my reaction.

I didn't react at all. Kommer's words were as a great surging wave, moving, alive, shifting me away from earlier opinions. “If I were a writer, I would write in my own language. Because I am a painter, my language is color, a language between people, not between peoples.” “So there is no need to study other peoples' languages, especially those of Europe?” I asked. “Nobody has said that. Without studying the languages of other peoples, especially European languages, we wouldn't understand foreign peoples. And, equally, if you don't study your own language you can never understand your own people.” Kommer answered quickly, as if he had readied such a reply.

My question seemed childish, like foam frothed on the surging wave that was Kommer. “And without knowing other peoples,” he continued without letting me regain my composure, “we will never come to know our own society properly either.”

I felt like Romulus and Remus, the twins who founded Rome, being suckled by a wolf. “Why aren't you saying anything, Minke?” Jean Marais returned with his own small wave. “We are talking to your conscience, not just playing at moving our lips. Have you still an excuse for not writing in your own tongue?"

The great wave came again: “People of whatever race who do not write in their own language are usually seeking their own self-satisfaction. They do not care about the needs of the people who give them life. Most of them do not know their own people.”

Do not know their own people! The accusation went too far; it was like a blow from a blunt adze. And it hurt even more that it came from people who weren't Natives: from an Indo and a Frenchman. In their eyes I didn't know my own people. Me! “You still haven't spoken,” Jean pressed. “He needs time to think things over, Mr. Marais. Remember Multatuli, Mr. Minke. 'If the Dutch won't read or print my writings,' he said, 'I will translate them into Native languages—Malay, Javanese, and Sudanese.' He was your own teacher, and indeed he did go on to write in Malay.” “You think I don't know my own people.” “The truth is often painful. But that is it, more or less. From your articles, it seems that you know more about Dutchmen and Indos.” “That's not true. I speak excellent Javanese.” “That doesn't mean you know the Javanese people. Have you ever known the villages and hamlets of Java, where most of our people live? You've only passed through them. Do you know what the farmers of Java eat, your own country's farmers? Most Javanese are farmers. The Javanese peasant farmers are your people.” “And what do you mean by 'know'?” I grabbed at whatever straw I could to save myself from the surging wave around me.

Perhaps because he saw that my blood pressure was rising, Kommer headed off in another direction: “I have another appointment. Mr. Marais, where is the design for that panther trap?”

Marais pulled out the desk drawer and extracted a sheet of paper. “This is the best possible, Mr. Kommer. You will get that black one, if the animal does indeed exist.” “Mr. Minke, this is a trap to catch a panther. Please drop in to my home from time to time. I keep a number of different animals: Tigers, crocodiles, snakes, monkeys, all kinds of birds… I like to watch their antics.” “We will finish our discussion?” “Another time, all right? Perhaps this isn't the right time. Yes, Mr. Marais?” “You catch these animals yourself?”

Kommer nodded. “The panther is to be an addition to the collection?” I asked, relieved to be free of the wave's pounding. “No, the German consul has ordered one for the Berlin zoo. The wild black panther is the most dangerous of them all. It lives on the ground, amongst the brush, the tall grass, and the trees. They can only be caught while asleep or if they are still cubs.” “Where will you trap it?” “In the forests around Sidoarjo. The panther is famous because of its black fur, which is bluish like hardened steel. With this design, I will get the carpenters of Sidoarjo to make a trap. Mr. Marais, aren't these wheels too small?” “No, the thing is that the trap mustn't be too far off the ground. The measurements of these wheels are such that they will still be able to cope with uneven ground and channels or low embankments.” “Right!” Kommer agreed. “Minke, I would be honored if you would join me in trapping this animal. You will have an opportunity to mix with your own people. Believe me, sir, I know these people better than you do. You will realize that there is too much that you don't know about them.” His words were confident and challenging, almost insolent.

Perhaps he was right, but his words weren't friendly. They offended, yet I was unable to refute them. I would test the truth of his boast. I would ask him whether he read Javanese writing or not. If he answered yes, I would ask which books he had read. If he answered no, I would have him cornered. But I hesitated, and he spoke first: “Once you have come to know your people, sir, you will discover a source of material for your writings that will never dry up, an eternal source of material. Didn't Kartini, in one of her letters to her friend, once say that to write is to work for eternity. If the source is eternal, maybe then the writing will be eternal also.” “You know a great deal about Kartini.” “What can one do, sir—someone as important as she is, her letters are being read everywhere.” “When do you leave for Sidoarjo?” “You are accepting my invitation?” “When do you leave?” “Tomorrow.” “Good. Tomorrow we too are going to Sidoarjo.”

Kommer frowned on hearing the word we. Then his eyes twinkled: “A coincidence,” he said. “If possible I will join you, Mr. Kommer. If possible. And you, Jean?” “I must finish this painting. Who knows, perhaps one day it will end up in the Louvre. What do you think I should call it, Minke?” “The Flower that Closed the Century,” Jean.”

Jean Marais went silent. Then his eyes shone with life: “That gives me a new idea. The background, and the sparkle in her eyes must be adjusted. Also her lips, Minke; they must be able to talk about the century that has passed, and speak about the hope of the future.”

I didn't understand what he was talking about. "You're the painter. It's up to you." “A painting has a language of its own, too, Minke.” “Indeed your wife was too beautiful, Mr. Minke, like the beauty we dream about,” Kommer said spiritedly. “That is its form, Mr. Kommer,” interjected Jean. “Appreciation of a painting must not stop with the form. It must include the story contained in the brush strokes, the mood, the character, and the life created through the integration of the colors.”

Kommer gazed, head forward in incomprehension, like me, before this copy of Annelies. Jean Marais's eyes came alight as we listened to him. Though his Malay was limited, he was able to explain with the help of his eyes and the movements of his hands.

The longer he went on, the more I came to understand: The art of painting is a branch of learning all of its own, whose language cannot be understood by everyone. Better just to be quiet and listen. For the umpteenth time now, I thought: To graduate from H.B.S. only made you realize your own ignorance. You must learn to be humble, Minke! Your schooling doesn't amount to much after all.

Before setting off for the station, Darsam reminded me: “Be careful, Young Master, guard Nyai well. This time I am not escorting her. Her safety is your responsibility now.” “I will look after her, Darsam.”

Marjuki wanted to get the carriage moving. Mama stopped him and called Darsam. From on top of the carriage, she reminded him, “You're in charge now, Darsam; be careful.”

Darsam smiled proudly, his mustache spreading: “All under control, Nyai!” “You're always saying 'all under control, all under control.' You haven't even got your mustache under control.”

It was true too. That great mustache of his wasn't symmetrical: One corner was drooping. Darsam's hand immediately went to his mouth, brushing back the mustache. “Now tell me, all is under control.” “Yes, Nyai, I forgot to tidy it up this morning, everything was done in such a hurry.” “Yes—yes—yes' is all you ever come out with when spoken to. Must I be the one who has to check things every day? If even your mustache isn't looked after properly…look, what am I always telling you?” “Yes, Nyai. If you feel good, then…” “So you haven't forgotten. Perhaps because you weren't in such a big hurry. Marjuki, get going!”

The carriage left the front grounds. As we moved onto the main road, my mood changed. You don't know your own people! You don't know your own country! I felt shame and knew that it was deserved. I would redeem myself from these accusations which I could not deny. How much weight do you reckon that man with the scruffy black pants over there is carrying on his back? I don't know. He was carting a tall basket of peanuts. To whom will he sell it? I don't know. Where? I don't know. What is it worth? I don't know. Will it bring in enough money to provide food for, say, a week? I don't know. Don't know! Don't know! Is he strong and healthy enough to carry such a load? I don't know that either. Has he been forced to cart it? My ignorance showed its depths. What was the harvest from each hundred square yards? Crazy! These questions tormented my mind. Yes, and they all stemmed from observing just one man carting peanuts—you arrogant-hearted ignoramus! If your ignorance is so great that you can't answer any of these questions about this man, then all you must see is his body and his movements. It would be so embarrassing if you tried to write about him, you arrogant writer!

Kommer was waiting at the station. I knew he had proposed to Mama. And would never get a reply. She hadn't even bothered to read his letter. He already had a wife and children. I had heard that his wife was also a Mixed-Blood. How he had got up the courage to propose was something I could hardly understand. Wasn't he younger than Mama?

He ran about making sure he bought first-class tickets, as if he were richer than Mama. He stood with his back to me at the ticket window. I shifted my gaze from it—that back, which accused me of not knowing my own people and country! The platform was quiet, as usual. Several people sat on benches. Mama went into the first-class waiting room. I walked slowly along the platform. From one of the benches a woman could be heard reminding her husband that he should hide his white haji cap, which signified he had been to Mecca; it would attract attention. There was a railway regulation: Europeans, Chinese, and haji were forbidden to travel third class. They had to travel first or second class. The man put his cap into a basket of souvenirs. His wife went off to buy their tickets. Her husband watched from his seat.

Was this the way to come to know your people? I laughed in my heart. I reckoned there must be more to it than this.

Once Kommer obtained the tickets, we quickly boarded our carriage. I sat next to Mama; Kommer sought a place opposite us. “It's been more than twenty years since I've seen the villages,” Mama began. “Perhaps nothing has changed in all this time.” “Nothing has changed, Nyai; it is just the same,” Kommer responded, and then asked: “People say Nyai comes from Sidoarjo. Is it true, Nyai?”

And so Nyai and Kommer became engrossed in conversation. You could tell the journalist was trying hard to find things to talk about, wanting to chat forever while the creaking train rocked on. He was trying to impress Mama with his education, with his interest in commerce, reading, and agriculture, hunting, folklore, and especially colonial politics.

I woke up because I heard my name mentioned, I didn't know in connection with what. “I have suggested to Mr. Minke that he write in Malay or Javanese. It seems he still has his doubts,” said Kommer.

"His own mother longs for him to write in Javanese," Mama explained. “Nah, Mr. Minke.” Kommer attacked as soon as he saw my eyes were open. “Your own mother! None other than your own mother!”

His voice seemed to condemn my sleepiness. I wasn't even given a chance to yawn. “Perhaps he's right, Child,” Mama joined in. “When I read the works of Francis or Wiggers—senior and junior—and also those of Mr. Kommer himself and Johannies, I feel Malay has a deliciousness of its own. You should try, I think.” “There's no point in ending up being forced to write in Malay; why not start of one's own accord?” Kommer was getting carried away again. “Why forced, Mr. Kommer?” asked Mama. “Forced, Nyai. Sooner or later, Native people will be greatly disillusioned by the Dutch colonial press, and they will be forced to write in their own language. The Dutch papers never discuss matters of concern to Natives, as though the only people in the Indies were Europeans. I reckon every honest writer will, in the end, be disappointed by them.”

I watched them and watched them. They didn't talk about me anymore. I think I fell asleep—giving Kommer a chance to show off his cock's plumage. He wouldn't ask about the fate of his proposal, I thought. And when I awoke again, he was asleep, propped up against the wall in the corner. Mama was looking out at the view. I'm embarrassed to admit it, but this was really the first time I ever took a proper look at my mother-in-law in her own right, not in relation to Annelies. Her grace and beauty now revealed themselves in their full naturalness. Nobody could say she looked old. Her cheeks were still full; there were no crow's feet at the corners of her eyes. She always dressed up as a businesswoman should. Her hair was always shining and the creases in her kain were never untidy. From the side she looked exactly like Annelies, only not quite as white, and her nose wasn't as pointed. Her eyebrows were dense, which gave her eyes a sinister look.

Kommer was sleeping with his mouth open. One gold tooth sparkled at the corner of his lips. My heart beat anxiously: I hoped this courageous newspaperman would not let saliva drip from behind his gold teeth. If Mama saw that, he might never get a reply to his proposal.

The train was very slow and stopped every other minute. First class and second class shared one carriage. All the passengers wore shoes or slipper-sandals. The second-class compartment carried passengers wearing slippers or sandals, no shoes. The third-class carriages were all barefoot. Peddlers going either to or from the markets walked up and down the carriage, accompanied by every kind of market smell, as well as flies. In first class there were only the three of us. In second class there were maybe ten Chinese and a haji who hadn't taken off his white haji cap.

There was so much dust and soot, it was certain that passengers from all classes would leave the train with dirty clothes. In a number of places, when the train traveled slowly, I would see a gang of laborers repairing the railway tracks and a Eurasian seated on a horse, with a sword, keeping watch over them. The gangs were mobilized by the Native Civil Service and village heads, and the village heads also mobilized the farmers who worked on government-owned lands. Nobody was paid for this forced labor. They never received food, or money for transport. They even had to provide their own water for tea.

Had I been born a landless farmer, perhaps I too would have been among those being supervised by the Mixed-Blood on his horse. And perhaps his knowledge wasn't any better than that of a village child who looked after the buffalos. Perhaps too I would have been spat upon by one of the overseer's assistants, a village official in his black shirt, his batik kain, with his destar on his head and his keris at his back. But I was not a tenant farmer working government land. The comparison made me feel fortunate, and also made me feel that I had the responsibility to be compassionate towards them. Responsible because these feelings of mine arose not from the heart, but from the mind. You are right, Kommer; as soon as I start paying them attention, all kinds of ideas and thoughts, and not just material for later, arise before me. It is likely that among that work gang there are people with skills that neither the overseer nor his assistants have. Perhaps there are gamelan makers or experts in making wayang shadow puppets, perhaps experts in Javanese literature. At the very least, they are all master farmers. Their miserable fate is caused only by the fact that they have no land of their own.

I knew for certain that besides being liable for forced labor, they would also be conscripted to take part in night patrols and guarding the village, and in emergency collective labor if something had to be done in the public interest. They would have to pay tribute to their chiefs. Their chickens and eggs could be confiscated whenever some chief they had never seen came visiting their village.

I had known all this since I was small. But only now, traveling along in the train, did they abruptly become real inhabitants of my thoughts. From Multatuli's novel Saidja and Adinda, I knew about the suffering of these peasants, but that knowledge had never lived in my mind as it did now. People also said that the peasants had to pay eggs and chickens and coconuts and fruit and herbs, which the village head would take with him each time he sought audience with the Native district chief. Sometimes the chiefs would voice the need, and the village officials would collect special tribute from the peasants to buy a cow or goat on his behalf. It all came from the peasantry, who owned nothing except their hoes and their labor.

The anonymous tract Magda Peters had given me spoke about them as the cork upon which the kingdom of the Netherlands floats. And what kind of cork-float? The pamphlet said it was a cork that will be forced to sink one day when its buoyancy has been soaked up. The whole of the kingdom's and the colony's life floated upon that cork. Any and every foot could step upon its head and shoulders, just as Governor-General Daendels had literally done long ago; they, the peasants, would accept every burden without protest. They would not complain, it went on to say, because for centuries they had known only one kind of fate: the fate of a peasant.

As soon as we entered the area around Sidoarjo, sugar cane enveloped the train, nothing but sugar cane, rippling in waves like a green sea upon purple-green sands. All of it would be cut and carried off to the sugar mills. This, it seemed, was the land where Nyai Ontosoroh was born. Everything centered on sugar. Even so, not everything tasted sweet. Mama's own experiences had already proved that. Perhaps I shall be able to discover other things.

Our destination was the family of Castro Kassier, Mama's elder brother. I did not know much about him. From what I knew I wrote up these notes:

The plague had attacked the village of Tulangan. Every day people fell down, sprawled out dead, including Dr. Van Niel, who was brought in from Surabaya. The Tulangan clinic, just a ten-by-thirteen-foot room, could do nothing. After burying their neighbors each morning, people would roll over and join their friends in death.

Sastrotomo, Sanikem's father, died; his children too, except for Paiman, Sanikem's elder brother. (Nyai Ontosoroh was originally called Sanikem.) Paiman ran away from the house to escape the epidemic that was sweeping away all around him. He knew his father and the brothers and sisters who had died had not been buried yet. He ran. Ran.

He didn't realize it then, but the plague bacteria had already begun to multiply within him.

He wandered aimlessly. In the evening he collapsed in the darkness far outside the sugar-factory complex. He knew he must keep walking but his strength was gone. He rolled his body under a tamarind tree. He remembered that the tree stood at an intersection. The narrow road to the right led to the graveyard. He did not want to end up there. He must live. He did not want to die just yet.

His body was burning with fever. Pain tormented his extremities. The night was dense with darkness; there was no wind. Those eyes, ah, why are those eyes always pulled towards the graveyard? How many of his acquaintances had been planted there like mandarin seedlings? and mangos and guavas?—seedlings that would never grow or sprout, vanishing, sucked up by the earth. Twenty people? Twenty-five? He could not count. His head was aflame.

In the darkness and stillness of the night, from time to time he could see tongues of fire leaping up from the graveyard, as if blown up into the sky to pierce the darkness of the windless night. They reached their peak, then fell back in a long curve, so long—as if they were flying away to vanish into nowhere. He saw other fiery flames pointing back down towards the villages, including Tulangan.

He was afraid. And his body could not carry his longing to be away from this frightening place. There was only one thing that proved he was still alive: the never-subsiding shout in his heart—live, live, I must live, live, live!

The morning dew woke him. In some obscure way, he felt that the dew had eased his fever. As the sun began to rise, he found himself approached by an old man. He heard the old man's voice, full of compassion, whisper: "So young as this! It's not the right time for you to die yet, Child. You probably have never been out of our village before now."

The man had a white beard and mustache. Paiman wanted very much to ask for help, but even his tongue would not work for him.

He dimly saw the old grandfather take down his woven rattan shoulder bag. From inside it he took a bottle. He poured something into Paiman's mouth, then went away. About four hours later, he returned and poured liquid from the bottle into Paiman's mouth once more. Like some god who had descended from heaven, the old man looked healthy and fresh amid the squalor of the epidemic. There was no fear in his face.

The bottle was empty. He put it back in his bag.

Paiman was saved because of that liquid. He didn't know what the old man had made him drink; it tasted like kerosene. Several more times the old man returned to minister to him.

That was Paiman, who was now called Castro Kassier, and he was more successful than Sastro to the father, the father of Sanikem alias Nyai Ontosoroh.

Sastrotomo never succeeded in becoming paymaster as he had hoped. He was never thought worthy of consideration. Because he knew that the new manager would not adhere to the agreement made between Sastrotomo and Herman Mellema, Mellema had gone to Tulangan to ask that Sastrotomo's son be taken on as an apprentice clerk. He was to be trained so that later he could become paymaster. Mellema did not tell Mama about this act of conscience.

The new manager of the sugar factory had come to Wonokromo a few times. Herman Mellema used such opportunities to pass on “aid” to his “brother-in-law.” It was through such visits that Mama eventually found out: Her elder brother had quickly advanced from being a clerk to an apprentice cashier and then had become full paymaster.

Silently, Mama felt proud to have a brother who had achieved such a high position—the only Native paymaster in a sugar factory in all of Java.

On the day of his promotion, the factory put on a small celebration. Paiman, who had changed his name to Sastrowongso—meaning descendant or with the blood of a scribe—when he married, announced another name change: Castro Kassier with two s's. His new name was published in the newspapers as a determination of the governor-general.

He had eight children.

Several times Paiman alias Sastrowongso alias Sastro Kassier came to Wonokromo. Mama always received him happily. But as time went on, his visits became less and less frequent. His own position was becoming stronger. After Herman Mellema's death, he was never seen again at Wonokromo.

He did come with his whole family when Annelies and I were married. That time too, Mama received him very affably. His youngest child, a girl, was two or three years younger than Annelies. Twice I saw her from a distance. I guessed that was how Sanikem had looked when she was a girl. Her body, as well as her face, eyes, lips, and nose, were all exactly the same.

From the moment we boarded the train I suspected: Perhaps Mama isn't going to Sidoarjo for a holiday but to ask for Castro Kassier's permission for his youngest daughter, Surati, and me to marry. No, Ma, it would be impossible for Minke to marry and to live with a woman who was still pure Javanese. Impossible, Ma. I don't mean to insult my mother or any woman who is still fully Javanese in her thoughts and customs. But I must make my own choice. You too, Ma, would never be able to take a husband who was fully a Native. European ideas, whether a little or a lot, have changed the way we look at things, have provided us with new requirements that must be met. And the matter of husband and wife wasn't just one of man and woman. You know that too, Ma. If the purpose of this visit is indeed to propose on my behalf—however beautiful and honorable are your intentions—you must forgive me: I cannot marry her. I just couldn't do it!

These suspicions and presentiments made me anxious, vigilant. On the other hand Mama seemed quite merry, like a young girl. Like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon, she lost that gloomy fearsomeness that had dominated her all this time. She was becoming more cheerful; she laughed, smiled, and chattered. She was no longer engrossed in her business, which was soon to be stolen away by Maurits Mellema.

There was no one from Castro Kassier's family to meet us at the station. Mama had not told them of our visit. Kommer hailed a carriage and offered to escort us to Tulangan. Mama laughed and refused. “Tulangan is still a long way from here, Mr. Kommer.” “I know Tulangan, Nyai.” “Yes?” “It is no more than five or six miles,” he said. “You can come and visit if you like. But not now, please.” And our carriage trotted off towards Tulangan.

Sugar cane, sugar cane, sugar cane for almost the whole length of our journey. The unshirted farmers stopped along the road to take a look at who was riding in the carriage. Small, stark-naked children, wet-nosed, filthy, were playing along the edge of the road, looking after livestock. I would have been among them had I been born into a farmer's family. “This is what my country is like, Child. Only cane. It is true what you said; everything revolves around sugar, whether evil or dreams. There are more than ten sugar mills in my country, Nyo. When the factory starts to mill, there's a big festival, nothing but festivals and parties. Everyone stakes their wealth and their reputations as fighters. Everywhere people lie sprawled in the streets, drunk. And on the gambling mats, children, wives, young brothers and sisters, all change hands as the wages of bets. You need to have a look at one sometime. It's a pity the milling season isn't about to start.”

The driver tried to turn around to catch the words he couldn't understand. He asked, “Yes, Ndoro?” “No, Man, I wasn't speaking to you.”

I was amazed that Mama followed Dutch practice and called the driver Man. The word did indeed mean man or person, yet I sensed that it still contained a derogatory element: It was used only when talking to lower-class men. The problem was that there was no neutral way to speak to such people in Javanese and Malay. Perhaps this is an aspect of the poverty of my mother tongue, a poverty that forces people to become accustomed to constantly degrading others. Why does my mind go crazy like this? Why won't it stop looking for work? “Tomorrow or the day after, Child, you can take a look at the villages. Didn't you say yesterday that Kommer had accused you of not knowing your own people? Actually I feel he was accusing me too. He is not totally mistaken. Perhaps he was a bit extreme, but I understand what he meant. He loves all that is Native so much, except their deficiencies and ignorance. He loves all that was ever possessed, created, or known by his mother's ancestors. On the train, he spoke with tremendous enthusiasm about the ancient Hindu temples. He said that he once invited Jean Marais to go on a trip with him to see some. Jean laughed. He didn't understand the significance of these temples. Kommer tried to explain. Jean only laughed more. Kommer became cranky, and took his revenge by belittling the monuments of France that the rest of the world so glorifies.”

Not an interesting subject. Suddenly Mama asked, “Have you ever seen one of these temples? Neither have I. They were built to last forever; there must be something about them that their builders wanted to immortalize.”

The conversation was becoming even less interesting. “Have you ever read anything about Paris? about France?”

"Nothing specifically, no, Ma." “I don't know why, but sometimes that country interests me very much. I can't imagine what it is like, but I'm still interested.”

Perhaps it was Jean Marais that Mama was really interested in. But I didn't say anything. “And Kommer?” “What about Kommer?” “What do you think of him?” I asked, fishing. “He has a lot of enthusiasm. That's all. In a few years, five or ten perhaps, you will far outshine him.” “Ma, I don't mean that.” “Shh! You'd be pleased if I accepted his proposal?” “What is it that Ma wants?” Mama's face went red like that of a blushing virgin. How happy she was at that moment.

It seemed that Castro Kassier was very well known in Sidoarjo. The carriage driver knew exactly where his house was. It was a stone house, a respectable house. It was located on the Tulangan sugar-mill complex. Castro Kassier was the only Native to have a house inside the complex.

The front door was closed, but the windows were open. Beyond the curtains we could see a reception area that wasn't at all small, and furniture one usually finds in the houses of Europeans. The differences were few: No books were in evidence, whereas in a European house they usually took pride of place among the furniture. “Yu! Yu Djumilah!” Nyai called out several times. She was calling for her sister-in-law, the wife of Castro Kassier. I had never seen her, though she had come to my wedding, but I knew her husband.

A woman, looking much older than Mama, opened the door. She stood there not understanding what was happening. “Yu Milah, have you forgotten me? Sanikem?” “Aiai! Sis Ikem, is this Sis Ikem? Come in. Come in. Still so young too?” She ran back and forth welcoming us, and invited us to sit on the settee of which they were so proud. “Yes, this is how we live. Please don't compare it to your house, Sis Ikem.”

The carriage driver took down all our things and carried them inside the house. Djumilah herself prepared a room. She came back into the parlor and began again: “Yes, just a simple room, please don't be disappointed.” She always spoke in Javanese, the only language she knew. “You must be very tired. Let me get you something to drink,” and she disappeared to the back.

Not long after that a pockmarked girl came out, bending and bowing as she brought out a tray of drinks. She went down on her knees as she approached us.

From the back came Djumilah's voice: "Have a drink, Sis. There just happens to be water boiling."

The pockmarked girl put the drinks out on the table, shifting them to their proper places.

Nyai got up from her chair and had a look around. Above one of the doors were two pictures of Her Majesty Wilhelmina, a sign that two graduates from the Factory School lived here. No doubt two of Sastro Kassier's children, even though it was unusual for children—boys or girls—from small towns like Tulangan to go to school.

After having a good look around, Nyai went to the other room. I could hear Djumilah's voice, loud and harsh, but friendly: “Yes, Sis, this shirt was woven in Gedangan. There are no weavers in Tulangan. There is no cotton grown here. Very nice?” Laughter. “If you'd like, I'll order one for you later.... Yes, yes, I'm amazed too, Sis, why the factories here don't want to make shirts like this. They'd be much better, too, of course.”

They came out together. Then Djumilah took Mama's suitcase and my suitcase into a room. I looked at Mama for a second. I heard her hiss: “Stupid woman!”

The basket of presents for the family had been carted into the kitchen by the carriage driver.

As soon as Djumilah reemerged from the room, she said: “Ah, you've stayed young, Sis Ikem. Sir, please feel free to change your clothes and rest up.” “I want to see out the back first.” Nyai stood up again and Djumilah took her to the back part of the house.

I was left alone there with my heart in turmoil—I was thought to be Mama's new man! Perhaps worse than that: the kept man of a nyai. Why didn't Mama put things right straight away when only one room was prepared? Why did she merely hiss “stupid woman”? I laughed, seeing the funny side of it. At least it would be good material for a story.

They came in again and sat down, still chattering away and laughing about I don't know what. I was silent, meditating on what I heard. Usually the male guest is received by the man of the house in the front parlor and the female guests by his wife in the back parlor or kitchen. The host wasn't there, so I was now included among the female guests. Another funny side to this awful situation.

The pockmarked girl came in again, bowing and bending as before. Now she put out some of the sponge cake we had brought from Wonokromo. At that moment Mama put the following question to Djumilah: “Elder Sister, where is Surati? I didn't see her out the back there just now.” “Surati? Come here,” she shouted shrilly. “Even your auntie doesn't recognize you anymore!”

The pockmarked girl, curling her lip, bowed down: “It is I, Surati,” she whispered. “Yes, Aunt, I am now pocked like this.”

I too was startled. This was Surati, that pretty girl I had seen twice before. Marked with big broad pocks, some deep and blackish. “Alah Niece.” Nyai stood up and pulled the girl up too. “How could this happen to you?” “It is my fate, Aunt.” “It was her father's doing, Sis Ikem's own brother, a man with no backbone. He wanted to follow in Sastrotomo's footsteps, and sell his own daughter to the Tuan Besar Kuasa factory manager!” Djumilah burst out. “What? Paiman?” Nyai was suddenly in a fury. “Paiman could do that to his daughter? Didn't he know what I had to suffer? Sit here, Niece!”

Surati sat down, bowing her head as custom required a young girl to do before her elders, especially before a man she had never met before.

Djumilah began to screech out curses on her husband, like a stream of river water that had found a free path in the steepest part of a gully. Every now and then her words would be punctuated by a shrill shout from Nyai: "A child as pretty as she, as sweet as she, look how she is now!"

Silently I followed the three women's conversation. Their questions and answers provided the structure of a story. Mama was overcome by the fire of her emotions. Back here in the environment from which she originally came, she seemed for a moment no more educated than Djumilah, thrown about by waves of extreme emotion while Surati told her the story as if it were the story of someone else's life; as though she had never felt sorrow or regret at the loss of her beauty.

They kept on talking. Mama groaned, accused, attacked; she laughed and smiled no more. The experiences of this once-beautiful blossom of Tulangan, the story of how she came to be pockmarked like this, unattractive to anyone, even to Mama and me, formed the basis of a great short story. It truly moved me and I wanted to write it. I promised myself that I would immortalize her suffering, even if the story was similar to Mama's own.

They talked and talked for more than an hour. They forgot I was there with them. Then the factory whistle reminded us all that it was already five o'clock. The cane workers in the fields now knew the working day was over. “Ah, Tuan hasn't been able to rest yet?” Djumilah said in a tone that asked forgiveness. “Sis Ikem, please show Sir into the room.” “I see there is another room. He can use that one,” said Nyai. “Why must you be separated?” protested Djumilah. “Don't be stupid! This is Annelies's husband!” “Oh, ah, oh, Annelies's husband! Ya-ya, and how is Annelies—people say she was taken to Holland?” “She's fine, Elder Sister,” Nyai lied. “No news yet?” “No.” “Well, I had better prepare another room.”

Then I realized: Her own sister looked upon Nyai as a woman of low morals. But at least that unspoken matter was now resolved. I got a room of my own, perhaps Surati's.

As I settled into that room, with its tidy bed and clean linen, I began to muse upon how disappointed Nyai must be. She would not try to marry me to Surati now. Her failure was an omen: I would soon be able to escape from Surabaya and Wonokromo.

Twilight arrived. The lights came on and I suddenly realized: electricity! For several minutes I stood gazing in admiration at the globe that gave off light but burned no oil, no gas, no wick. I thought of Edison and I bowed my head in his honor. I had now actually enjoyed two of his discoveries, the phonograph and the electric light bulb. And I was actually seeing an electric light bulb itself, not just a picture in a newspaper or magazine.

After I bathed, instead of taking the usual afternoon stroll, I began to note down the story of Surati's life. But I wasn't able to do it in peace. All of a sudden I heard Mama, running amok with words—and a man's low voice occasionally responding. Castro Kassier had arrived home and was feeling Mama's wrath.

There was silence at the dinner table that evening and an atmosphere of enmity. I withdrew from the table before the battle began again.

It was Djumilah's voice that first broke the silence. “You were always a man without a backbone. Like a wayang shadow puppet that's lost its stick. It's lucky there's not a war on. How would you behave if you had to go to war?” “Nothing but the descendant of a slave!” Mama reentered the fray. “You keep out of this, Sanikem. You've done all right as a nyai,” Paiman alias Sastrowongso alias Kassier answered. “No! You're the one who benefited from my sale as a nyai. You were made a clerk!” “But you're doing all right too!” “I'm doing all right now because I've worked and fought hard, not because I was made into a nyai! Idiot!”

I closed the door, and my ears too, and went on writing my notes.

These are the notes I made about what happened to Surati, rearranged and rounded out with further material:

The citizens of Tulangan were busy preparing for a farewell party for the tuan manager, tuan besar kuasa. His contract had expired. As soon as his replacement arrived, he would set off for Surabaya among much festivity. He wanted to leave the people with something nice to remember. To the employees whom he was leaving, he kept saying: “May my replacement be better than I. Please help him!”

All the employees, workers, and other ordinary citizens held the same hope. The manager of the sugar mill was a powerful man in Tulangan, more powerful than the bupati, assistant resident, or even the resident. He was a little king. People said his wage was bigger than that of the governor-general. Though people didn't bow down and abase themselves before him, as they had to before a bupati or other Native official, his word was law. The old people of the village could still tell the story of the first tuan besar kuasa, the one Herman Mellema replaced, and how he ordered the execution of seven farmers who rebelled and refused to surrender their land. Five others had died of fright after carrying out orders to remove stones from the temples to be used as the foundation of giant constructions for the factory.

The laugh of a manager is something that puts people at ease; his threat is something else: The plantation supervisors, foremen, office employees, even the coolies, will obey him without question. At the crook of his finger, people will come; with just a grunt, people can be knocked to the ground.

The manager of the sugar mill, the tuan besar kuasa: a man with a tongue of fire.

So it was the time for preparations for the arrival of the new manager. The hand-over ceremony was attended by the controller and the bupati of Sidoarjo. Two hours after the ceremony, the new and the old managers came out from the office and went among the festive throng. The gong sounded, and the party began. At the same time, carriages were readied to escort the old manager as he left Tulangan.

The party itself was kept going with hired dancers, with palm wine, and with dice and brawling.

The new tuan manager was called Frits Homerus Vlekkenbaaj. He accompanied his predecessor as far as Sidoarjo railway station. As soon as he returned he strode into the partying crowd. Through an interpreter he rebuked: “What kind of infidel's party is this? Such noise—barbaric! Everyone leave! Go! Quickly!”

Everyone realized at once that gloomy clouds hovered before them.

Mijnheer Frits Homerus Vlekkenbaaj was short, even compared to Natives. His body was like a ball, with a bloated stomach—the stomach of someone who always sat and did no physical work. His eyes were deep, and peered out from under his eyelids, a greenish yellow, but clear, like marbles. He was the first European to appear there in public wearing short-sleeved shirts and short trousers, so that his dense, long, blond body hair was visible. He was bald; his cheeks were round and loose. His heavily lidded eyes gave the impression that he never slept at the right time. He kept to himself, avoiding speech except to spray abuse at people.

Not only the coolies and the villagers, but especially the office employees and foremen were frightened of his power. It was the Mixed-Blood employees who whispered to the villagers and coolies: The new Tuan was Plikemboh—"Ugly Penis." The name stuck. The women would look away or giggle, covering their mouths, whenever they heard that name.

From the time of the party a tense atmosphere oppressed all of Tulangan —villagers, employees, and laborers. Plikemboh seemed capable of doing anything to anyone—Native, Pure, or Mixed-Blood. The workers and office employees reacted in their normal way: They would accept any treatment as long as they weren't dismissed.

Plikemboh understood that people were afraid of him. He was pleased. Now he was really someone. He was feared; he was master. He didn't have to work. Fear was his trusted foreman. He was rarely seen at his desk. His only order during the whole first month was: Tighten the supervision over the manufacture of spirits and hard drink.

Plikemboh was a drinker and a drunkard. Yet he never drank what he had manufactured himself. So one or two sample bottles of drink from his own factory were brought to him, and he would sniff them to assess their alcohol content.

In the second month he started to wander around outside the complex. He would visit the cane plantations and the factory's electric plant. He liked to stand watching the plant's steam generator, proud that it was the very first in the Surabaya area. He would walk around carrying an air rifle with which he hunted birds. He didn't ride horses—unusual for a sugar-mill manager.

In the late afternoons he could be seen sitting in front of his house, perhaps half drunk, with the air rifle on his table. He would take aim and shoot at any Native child who passed by on the street. Soon all the children were afraid of him. They would run away as soon as he appeared in the distance, carrying his rifle. So began the practice that mothers would use his name to frighten disobedient children.

Whenever he spent time outdoors, his face went very red, like that of a hen about to lay an egg. His head hardly ever turned, as if it were just a piece of twisted firewood.

Everyone knew he was a bad shot. He never took home a single bird. Whenever he went hunting a black leather bag hung from his shoulder. People guessed the bag had never held a bird, only a bottle of brandy.

After realizing that the birds would always elude his black leather bag, Plikemboh became bored with his rifle. Now he discovered a new kind of hunting: entering the homes of the Natives who lived near the factory complex, opening the doors to their rooms, their cupboards, even their cooking pots and rice steamers. His reasoning was that Natives could not be trusted; they were all thieves or half thieves, smugglers of contraband, manufacturers of illegal whisky. He never found what he was looking for. Then he began to worry the women. People began to lock their doors and wouldn't open them even if he pounded on the door.

Both men and women felt disgust whenever near Tuan Plikemboh. Not just because of his appearance; more so because of his character. Wherever he was present, people felt the air to be polluted. His body hair, his bloatedness, his transparent eyes, his glistening baldness...

One day Djumilah cried out, startled. Plikemboh had entered the house, perhaps through a window. Djumilah ran to the back part of the house, into the kitchen. All the boys were at school. The girls were in the kitchen. Plikemboh came into the kitchen too. The girls, in a daze, scattered in every direction, running faster even than their mother.

Djumilah ran out into the back yard. She shivered; she was unable to speak. She saw Surati pulling up water from the well, ready to do the family washing. Her mother signaled her to run. The girl didn't understand. Plikemboh had rushed out and reached the well. Now he stood before Surati, who was shaking with fear, unable to stand up any longer.

In the distance she could hear Djumilah calling for help. People came running. Seeing Tuan Besar Kuasa up to one of his tricks again, they all disappeared, guarding their own fates.

Fear and revulsion made Surati shiver and collapse into a squat. Seeing this, Plikemboh didn't know what to do. He slunk away behind the other houses and disappeared from view.

Only then did the neighbors return to Surati. They picked her up and carried her to the bench in the kitchen and changed her wet, stinking kain. Her face was white and she still couldn't speak.

The tuan manager, carrying his shoulder bag, descended again to the main road and returned to his office. From his books he found out that house number fifteen was occupied by the Castro Kassier family. He summoned the paymaster. Before coming to the Indies he had prepared himself by learning a little Malay from a retired controller. The conversation took place in Malay: “You are Castro Kassier?” “Yes, Tuan Besar Kuasa.” “You are the paymaster here?” “Yes, Tuan Besar.” “You have worked here a long time?” “More than fourteen years, Tuan Besar Kuasa.” “How many wives to you have?” “Only one, Tuan Besar Kuasa.” “Liar. No Javanese like you has only one wife.” “On my life, Tuan Besar Kuasa, only one.” “How many children?” “Eight, Tuan Besar.” “Good. Do you have a virgin daughter?”

Sastro Kassier sat up, startled. The father in him warned him to be careful. The beginning of some catastrophe hovered before his soul's eye. But there was no way to avoid answering. All his children were listed in the company books. He would lose his position straight away if he was discovered to be lying. He admitted he did have one. Plikemboh asked about her age, her schooling, everything about Surati except her name. “Good. You can go now.”

Sastro Kassier returned to his work. He was anxious. He thought of sending his daughter away to Wonokromo. Impossible. From the Eurasian-owned Malay-language press, he knew that Sanikem herself was in trouble. His youngest niece, Annelies, was under the threat of being taken off to the Netherlands under guardianship. He knew too what a big affair that had become. He had wanted to go to Wonokromo to ask about it and at least to show his sympathy. He had hesitated, and ended up not leaving. Now it was impossible to take Surati there.

In the afternoon, after work, he was summoned again by Tuan Manager. He was received in Plikemboh's house. He was served cakes and alcohol. He couldn't refuse any of the things offered to him, afraid of exciting Plikemboh's wrath. All that he drank and ate there he felt was poisoning him, destroying his whole world.

Not a single person knows what they said to each other. Neither Sastro Kassier nor Plikemboh has ever spoken about it to anyone else.

It was evening when he returned home. His wife greeted him roughly—the first time he had ever been treated that way by her: “Look out, you, if you try anything crazy with that Plikemboh!” she threatened.

He realized that the whole of Tulangan knew what was happening. That night he didn't eat, but went straight to his room. He couldn't sleep. His eyes blinked open and shut like those of an old doll.

No paymaster was ever popular. It was the same with Castro Kassier. The laborers suspected, correctly, that he and the foremen conspired to take a ten percent cut from their wages. None of the coolies could read or write. They could only frown, distrust, hate, make threats behind the backs of those concerned. Castro Kassier indeed needed the extra money—for gambling and to pay for his mistresses, an honored custom among Native employees.

But one's position—that was everything to a Native who was neither farmer nor tradesman. His wealth might be destroyed, his family shattered, his name dishonored, but his position must be saved. It was not just his livelihood; with it also went honor and self-respect. People would fight, pray, fast, libel, lie, force their bones to the limit, bring disaster down on others, all for Position. People were prepared to give up anything for Position, because, with it, all might be redeemed. The closer Position took a person to the Europeans, the more he was respected, even if all he owned was his one blangkon hat. Europeans were the symbol of unlimited power, and power brings money. They had defeated the kings, the sultans, and the princes of Java, the holymen and the warriors. They subjugated men and nature without the slightest quiver of fear.

The next morning Paiman alias Sastro Kassier was called before Plikemboh again. Once again their conversation remained a secret to themselves. That night Sastro Kassier did not come home. He walked and walked through the villages to the north of Tulangan, like a burglar without a job. He thought and he didn't think. He prayed and then forgot what he prayed for. He did not make the rounds of his mistresses. He did not pick up the cards. He had resolved to cleanse himself of all such pollution. He neither drank nor ate. He walked and walked. He did not sleep, just walked.

He went back to his office after bathing in the river and meditated on top of a rock. He would work through the day without visiting home. As soon as he unlocked the door to his office, a messenger arrived: “An order from Tuan Besar Kuasa: As soon as Ndoro Paymaster arrives he must report immediately.”

His meditation and ascetic exercises of the night before had not been blessed. Already Plikemboh was calling for him. His heart was still in turmoil. Now people would find out what the two of them talked about. A young coolie was scrubbing the office floor with carbolic acid. “Eh, Castro Kassier have you come up with an idea yet?” “Not yet, Tuan Besar Kuasa,” he answered. “Why not?” He mispronounced his Malay. “I haven't dared discuss it with my wife, Tuan Besar.” “Don't you know yet who Vlekkenbaaj is?” “I know, Tuan Besar, I know very well.” “How come then you haven't spoken with your wife yet?” he said in even worse Malay. “Afraid, Tuan Besar.” “And not afraid of me?”

Sastro Kassier was afraid of them both. He didn't answer. “So then bring this wife of yours to see me. Why are you still here? Bring her to me! Get going!” “She's gone, Tuan Besar, gone to rest at her mother-in-law's.”

Vlekkenbaaj's eyes popped out. His forefinger wagged up and down as it pointed threateningly: "Watch out if you're lying. You'll regret it later. Get to work!"

Sastro Kassier went to his work. His anxiety did not prevent him from preparing his accounts. Tomorrow, Saturday, was payday. After finishing this, he recklessly reported sick and went home early.

His wife was not at all surprised to see her husband not sleeping at home. That indeed was the way of a man with position. She would never ask where he'd been. It was not the custom of a wife to challenge a husband who had position. Indeed even without her ever challenging him, she could be kicked out without a formal divorce. In some matters, the wife of a man with position might dare ask something, but never concerning her husband's “leisure.” She was silent, silent in every way, feeling indeed inadequate in her inability to serve her husband as he desired.

Now Djumilah prepared something to eat, even though the day was still young. But Castro Kassier did not eat. He pulled his wife over and ordered her to sit on the chair beside him. “Don't think you can trick me.” She erected battlements around her daughter. “He wants to see you.” “No.” Djumilah knew she would be powerless once faced with Plikemboh himself.

"It's true; he wants to see you." “I cannot. Rather than my child be sold…shameful! Times have changed. That kind of thing shouldn't happen anymore.”

Sastro Kassier knew his wife's answer was a challenge to divorce her. “Then you should go away.” “No. I will defend my daughter.” “Surati!” called Castro Kassier. The girl came out and squatted, bowing before her father. “You know what's happened. What do you say?” “Pay no attention to your father!” Djumilah incited her daughter. “You mustn't be like Sanikem, your aunt. May God forgive her.” “Sanikem is now richer than the Queen of Solo,” Sastro Kassier contradicted. “Surati could be rich like that too. Well, Rati?” “The mouth of Satan! Don't answer, Child, don't!” “Yes, she doesn't have to answer. But both of you have a duty to understand how things are.” “Don't listen.” “Tuan Besar Kuasa,” Sastro Kassier went on, not heeding the protests of his wife, “has ordered that I hand you, Surati, over to him. He wants to take you as his mistress. That's enough. That's all you need to know from your father. It's up to you whether you want to reject him or accept. If you don't want to answer, that's all right too.”

Surati left. “Satan!” cursed Djumilah. “Do you think I gave birth to her so she could become someone's concubine? You were always a man without backbone!” “Don't make me angry. I'm still meditating, trying to find an answer to this.” Now it was Castro Kassier who shouted. “Meditation! No need to meditate to know the answer: No! and the whole thing is over.” “It's not as simple as that.” “Are you afraid of becoming a farmer? A trader at the market? Ashamed? If I were the man, that would be my answer: no!” “What does a woman know? Your world is no more than the tamarind seed. A wrong step and all of this could fall apart.”

The whole day Sastro Kassier did not eat or drink. He left the house and walked and walked as he had the day before, across the dikes around the infertile paddy land which the village people still owned. The most fertile lands, all of them, had been taken over, rented by the mill every cane season, the contract renewed every eighteen months. Peasant farmers who rebelled courted disaster; the factory also controlled the civil service right down to the village officials.

The time of the full moon had passed. The night was shimmering with the half-light of its yellowish glow. The wind blew strongly. Castro Kassier took no notice of the wind, of the moon, of himself. A sugar-mill official was one of the elect, one of the beloved of God. If that were not so, then could not any Native become a paymaster? Now he longed for an answer, one that didn't come from a human mouth, but from the realm of the supernatural, through some nonhuman being as an intermediary. Perhaps tonight some supernatural being was roaming the dark like him on this half-lit night. Perhaps this being might whisper the answer to him. And, indeed, if at that moment a goat had stood up on his two hind legs, or squatted, or rolled over, or sat legs tucked under as if at prayer, and spoke, and said: Sastro Kassier, carry out the orders of Tuan Plikemboh, he would carry them out no matter what the consequences. As long as Sastro Kassier himself could not be held responsible for his own deeds, did not have to use his own brain. So long as the sign did not come from a human mouth, such as his own.

And if that goat said No! he would never do what Plikemboh wanted, no matter what the cost.

For people like Castro Kassier, Europeans were only one level below supernatural beings. And Europeans could be found about the place almost any time you wanted one. But he would never dare contradict a European. Like the others, he preferred to hope for a supernatural being. They had to be obeyed as well, but they were much more difficult to find when you needed their advice.

Sastro Kassier had complete faith that he would not collapse or faint for lack of food or drink. Fasting too was a much-honored practice. But he came across nothing supernatural. As if nothing had happened, he turned up for work as usual the next morning. His duties at the office must be carried out as efficiently as possible.

He took out the key to his office. He started: The door wasn't locked! He searched his mind: Had he forgotten to lock the door when leaving yesterday? He didn't go into his office. His eyes examined the steel-latticed walls. It was impossible for anyone to get their hands through and undo the lock from inside. He could see the whole office inside. Everything was lying peacefully in its place. Who had opened the door?

He didn't feel he'd been negligent. He had locked the door when he went home yesterday. He could still remember the click as he had turned the key in the lock and said to the attendant that he was going because he had a headache. Wasn't it the attendant himself who had reminded him: Don't forget the key, Ndoro?

Sastro Kassier was absolutely certain he hadn't forgotten. Locking up was one of his many responsibilities; he could not possibly have forgotten. He turned around and found yesterday's attendant on duty today as well—he was sitting on a bench in the corner. Castro Kassier asked uncertainly: "Who opened this door?" “There hasn't been anyone, Ndoro.” “Look, the door's already open. The key's still in my hand.”

The attendant went pale, and didn't say anything. “Go and get the night attendant.” He was sure now: Someone had entered his office without permission. Only two people had a key: himself and Tuan Besar Kuasa. It was possible Plikemboh had come in and forgotten to lock up again. But if it were someone else using a copied key, and with evil intentions?

Half an hour later the night attendant arrived. “You were on guard last night?” “Yes, Ndoro.” “Who entered my office?” “Tuan Besar Kuasa, Ndoro.” “You saw him yourself?” “Yes, Ndoro.” “Watch out if you're lying! What did he do inside?” “I don't know, Ndoro. I came outside to keep watch on the other doors and windows.”

Sastro Kassier felt a bit calmer; yet his suspicions could not be put at rest. He went uncertainly into the office. From his desk drawer he took out his accounting books, anxious. He knew with great certainty: People might do anything for the sake of Position.

He opened his cash box. Yesterday he had sorted the money into piles for today's wages. All he had to do now was set it out on the table. He jumped back in shock. The cash box was empty, its lock undone, a gaping emptiness. He took another step back, his eyes wide open. He bumped into the next table. “Attendant!” he shouted. “Yes, Ndoro,” replied the attendant from behind the latticed wall. “Look!” he shouted again. “You are a witness! The cash box is empty. Someone has been in here and opened the cash box. You are a witness! Th night attendant said Tuan Besar Kuasa came here last night. You're a witness! a witness!" “Ndoro!” The attendant was shaking. “You're the one who guards my office. Go and report to Tuan Besar Kuasa.” The attendant, terrified, went off to find Plikemboh. “Today there will be no wages, no pay!” Castro Kassier cried hysterically.

People gathered around outside the latticed wall gasping at the sight of the open, empty cash box. “No wages! The cash box has been emptied! Emptied! There will be no wages today, no pay for anyone!” Sastro Kassier shouted more and more hysterically as the crowd watched.

The office work stopped altogether. All came to have a look: European—both Pure and Mixed-Blood—and Natives. Not a single person dared enter the paymaster's office. Only two people had that right: paymaster and manager.

Sastro Kassier was still screaming hysterically when Frits Homerus Vlekkenbaaj arrived and growled: "Shut your snout!" Immediately Castro Kassier was silent.

Plikemboh entered through the crowd, which was parted by the aura of his power. Castro huddled in a corner, his eyes unable to move from the gaping cash box. “What's all this about, you, monkey Castro Kassier?”

The paymaster, no longer able to feel the sharpness of such an insult, reported nervously: “Someone has broken into the office, broken into the cash box.”

"You're the only one here." “Night attendant! Here!” shouted Castro.

The night attendant pushed his face up against the iron lattice. “Yes, Ndoro.”

"Tell us: Who was here last night?"

The attendant stared at Plikemboh for quite some time, and the manager stared back at him with those marblelike eyes. “No one, Ndoro. No one was here.” “But what did you just tell me? You said Tuan Besar Kuasa was here last night. Now you're going back on what you said. The day attendant heard you. Day attendant!”

Now the day attendant pushed his face up against the partition. His eyes followed the look of the night attendant, to Plikemboh, to the paymaster, then to the floor. “You witnessed what the night attendant said to me.” “Yes, Master, Ndoro.” “Tell us what he said: that Tuan Besar Kuasa came in last night.” “The night attendant said that no one entered here.” “Liar! Both of them are liars!” “You are the lair!” Plikemboh pointed to Castro Kassier. “What time did you go home yesterday? Eleven! Who inspected your things before you left? Attendant! Did you examine his things when he left, day attendant?” “No, Tuan Besar.” “Who can witness that you didn't take the factory's money? Who's your witness?” “Who can witness that I did take the money?” Sastro Kassier protested weakly.

"Answer first: Who can witness that you didn't take it?" “There is no witness,” answered Castro. “So it was you who took it. Report this to the Marechausee!” “Not yet, Tuan Besar Kuasa. Not yet! We must investigate who has been here first. Only Tuan Besar and I have keys. There are no signs that either the door or the cash-box lock have been forced. They must have been opened by the right key.” “You dare accuse me? The manager?” “Who knows?” Sastro Kassier began to fight back. “If it wasn't Tuan, it could only have been me. There is no one else who could have opened this cash box except us two.” “Very well, let me just call in the Marechausee. We'll see you admit it all under their riding whips.” He started to move away, stopped, and called out, “Karl, Karl!” When the person he had called arrived he gave the order in Dutch: “Draw up a letter of accusation to give to the authorities, for the Marechausee too. Do it now. I'll take it to them myself.” And then speaking in Malay: “Everyone back to work! You too, monkey!”

The crowd dispersed. The paymaster was left facing Plikemboh. The closest people to them were the day and night attendants. Both were pale. They were facing away from the paymaster's office but their ears were alert, straining to hear. “In short,” said Plikemboh, “who took the factory's money is not the important thing now. What is important is that all wages due to the foremen and coolies must be paid today. Must be!” “If there is no money, it's impossible.” “That's your affair, paymaster. Your name is Kassier, isn't it, eh? The factory put its trust in you. It is your responsibility. How much was lost altogether?”

Without opening his books, the paymaster replied: “Forty-five thousand guilders and five cents.” “Quite a lot. No one has ever had that much money. How much are the coolies' wages this week?” “Nine thousand and forty-four guilders.” “Good. Pay up that nine thousand and forty-four guilders. Don't fall down on your job.” “I don't have even one guilder.” “Where did you go from here yesterday?” “Home.” “And didn't go out again? People saw you leaving your house. Who did you go to see? Why are you silent? You must have been going somewhere.”

Now Sastro Kassier understood: He had fallen into a trap prepared especially for him. He also understood that in a case like this where two people are accused, one a Pure-Blood manager, perhaps also a shareholder, and the other a Native, the Native is in the wrong place and the Pure is in the right. Since he had been paymaster, the money in his care had never been short one cent. That was before; it was different now. Where were you last night? Who is your witness? The night attendant would stand fast with his lies. It was enough to keep saying that no one had come in, for there was no reason for anyone to visit the office at night. And a manager who was perhaps even a shareholder would never rob money from his own factory. “Come on, tell me. Where did you go? You still won't confess? Whom did you meet? Why are you silent? Fine—you don't want to answer. In short, you still have to pay today's wages and salaries. No delay—that is a factory regulation, part of our agreement with the government. Do you hear? The government!”

Before leaving, he still needed to turn around and add: “Do you want to try to fool the government? The government troops? The Marechausee? The police? You can try if you like.” Then he left.

Everyone stared across at the paymaster's office, now like an iron cage. Each thanked God not to be the one singled out for this disaster.

The paymaster stood gazing at the yawning cash box. He did not know what to do. He was no longer concerned with the disappearance of the money, but with his responsibility to ensure that the wages and salaries were paid. He sensed his fingers going cold because he wasn't counting out the money. In a moment, the foremen would start arriving to collect their pay. A gang of coolies would be waiting upon each of them. He knew the danger that threatened if the money wasn't paid over as it should be. He also knew with certainty that the agreement between the factory and the government did exist.

Slowly he closed the cash box and locked it. Without looking at anyone, he left his office, locked the door, and headed for Plikemboh's office, walking with his head bowed. “Ha, you've come, eh? What do you have to say?”

He wanted to gouge out those marblelike eyes from that European face. “Tuan Besar Kuasa Manager, I don't have the money to pay the wages. It is up to Tuan Besar Kuasa to decide what is best.” “Sit!” ordered Plikemboh.

For the first time in his fourteen years at the factory he sat on the chair opposite the manager. “What do you want now?” “The coolies and foremen must be paid today. There is no time to borrow money from the bank. Tuan must lend me the money.” “Lend you money?” Plikemboh hissed. “That's an insolent request indeed. Nine thousand and forty-four guilders—the same price as four new stone houses with land and furniture. You're crazy!” “Only Tuan Besar Kuasa can help me.” “You shall be dismissed, punished, everything you own will be taken from you. You'll be a pauper, a vagabond, a beggar. And it will happen today, if you can't pay those wages.” “Whatever may happen, then let it happen. But Tuan too will be in trouble if the wages can't be paid. The factory will be closed for breaking the agreement with the government. What can one do?”

Frits Homerus Vlekkenbaaj laughed to hide his surprise. Then: “You're clever, heh; you've a lot of cunning in you. You want to drag me into it?” Now his tone was more friendly. “Yes, I must help you to pay out those wages. Here, sign this agreement first. Put your signature and your thumbprint on it. You'd better do it.”

It became clearer still to Castro Kassier. Of course it was Plikemboh who had arranged all this. Plikemboh had already prepared the letter of agreement: It demanded the handing over of Castro's grown-up daughter within three days of signing the letter. On handing her over, his debt to Plikemboh and all the remaining missing money would be taken care of by the manager himself.

Sastro Kassier forced himself to believe that this was indeed the genuine fruit of his meditation and fasting over the last two nights. He had not yet eaten or taken any drink. But today, anyway, the foremen and coolies would receive their money. He knew he could not avoid his responsibilities as paymaster. With a prayer that God lay a curse upon it, he signed the agreement, then added his thumbprint.

He received the money. Plikemboh watched it all, smiling.

The days now passed tensely for Surati. She knew the story of Auntie Sanikem well. She was unwilling to go freely to become someone's concubine, isolated from the world, looked upon by everyone as something strange, a public spectacle.

Her mother kept pressuring her not to agree to anything her father suggested. She was afraid of her father, but sad for her mother. From childhood she had been taught to fear and obey her parents, with words, with beatings, with pinchings. Fear of her parents was a part of her personality. But she was still more afraid of the Europeans and their weapons.

Her happiness in life vanished. Her mother's rebellion against her father turned everything upside down. She could not stand to see her father so abused by her mother; neither could she stand to see her mother belittled and ignored by her father. If the gods and goddesses in the heavens fought each other as viciously as her parents now fought, the earth would tremble and be forced to find a place to anchor itself. “Don't make your mother and your sisters carry a burden of shame. Become a concubine? Be a nyai? May God protect us, may it never happen. It's not proper, not right. No one can say it's right.”

Surati understood. She must carry out her mother's wishes and not shame her sisters. The whole neighborhood agreed with her mother. She understood too, better than they, that it was her father who held power over her, more power than anyone else. If her father wanted her to do it, there was no power that could stop him. Not the police, not the troops, and certainly not just the village head. And she would not dare oppose him.

She lost all desires during those tense days. Must she just surrender herself to whatever was to happen? And so save her parents' marriage? Bring them together again in an atmosphere of perpetual enmity? Or must she rebel, so that when her mother sided with her, a divorce would follow? What would be the fate then of her little sisters? She couldn't decide. She herself had come face to face with Plikemboh. She would never willingly be taken by him! She shivered.

That evening, after the factory whistle had finished its repetitive screaming, she was lying in despair on her bed. In the front parlor, her mother was venting all her fury on Castro Kassier: “Miserable descendant of the seller of children! As long as you're all right yourself! A man with no backbone! A worm could still crawl on and try!” Her voice was harsh and furious but her muscles were powerless. “Surati!” called her father.

Surati came out of her room and stood with head bowed and hands clasped before her as was proper. At that moment, she knew: Her voice had volume but no power. “So, Rati,” Sastro Kassier opened his speech, “three more days and I will take you to him, to Tuan Besar Kuasa Manager. In all things it is Allah that hands out fate and good fortune. It is He who decides all things in accord with His wishes.”

Surati understood that she must now answer, and it would be an answer from a frightened and obedient child. She knew too that such obedience and fear meant her own destruction. All of a sudden she remembered the smallpox epidemic that was spreading wildly in the south. In a little while everyone would be lashed by the disease. Tulangan too. What was the difference between the destruction looming before her now and the viciousness of smallpox? As a good daughter, she would not disappoint her father. “I just obey, Father.”

"You will do what I say, my Child? What do you mean by obey?" “In whatever way it is Father's wish.” “Yes, Child, it is only you that can save your father, that can stop your father from being dismissed, from being put in jail.” “Let him be dismissed. Let him be accused, Rati, so that he knows what it means to be a man.” “No, Mother. We would all be ashamed as a result.” “Ah, you, Rati, Surati, to accept being concubine of an infidel, a cursed devil.” “We all eat from him,” Sastro reminded everyone. “Let it be, Mother; my sisters are still many. What does it mean to lose just one egg? I will go there myself. No need to be escorted like Sanikem.” “Thanks be to God, Rati, praise be to God. You are a child who truly understand the difficulties of her parents. A child so devoted to her parents will be honored in both this world and the next.” “Mouth of a liar!” Djumilah screamed. “Not honor. He doesn't know the difference between honor and humiliation.” “But,” Surati went on, “allow me to go out tonight to meditate. Don't look for me. When the time has come, I will go myself to the house of Tuan Besar Kuasa Manager.” “What kind of meditation, Child? Late at night like this?” Djumilah could not hold back her tears. All her anger melted away in pity for her daughter. “With so much illness about now?” “Yes, Mother. If its parents can no longer do anything for an egg, then the egg must roll away itself to find its own way in life.”

Djumilah could no longer hold back her emotion. She embraced her daughter. “Where are you going? All this is your own father's—" “Let it be, Mother. Now let me leave.” “Where are you going? I will come with you.” “Let it be, Ma. What need is there? This daughter of yours is an egg that must be sacrificed. Stay and live in happiness with Father.”

And so it was. With a small bag containing clothes, matches, kerosene, and dried foods, the girl left to make her way into the thick blackness of the night. Her feet took her southward. After traveling quite a long way, she sat down in a daze beside the road. What must she do? All she knew was that she must leave that house. The roof that had always sheltered her from rain and heat now housed a nest of quarrels, had lost its power to shelter and protect its peacefulness, and all because of her. But where must she go now? She knew her mother and sisters would try to follow her. She stood up and walked a bit farther. Quickly, faster and faster. She slipped behind a hedge, disappearing from the view of anyone following her.

She pressed on, her strides quicker. She did not want blame to arise in her heart.

She must resolve the problem herself, because it was she herself who would undergo it all. None of this would be happening if there were no Plikemboh. Plikemboh—Surati shivered. She was supposed to accept that disgusting person. For a moment the vision of Plikemboh disappeared, and was replaced by one of her mother, her father, her little sisters, her Aunt Sanikem. Then for a moment she saw Annelies's marriage again—Annelies sitting beside her husband, looking so happy. Surati knew such happiness as that was not now for her, nor would it ever be. A tear dropped. She too wished for such happiness. But it seemed her fate was to be different. And she was afraid of her parents. “Why is Father like Grandfather Sastrotomo?” she whispered angrily to herself. “How could he do it to his own daughter, just to keep himself safe? What was the use of having me? Why can't I be like other girls?”

Like lightning, memories flashed by of other friends who had suffered this same fate. All beautiful girls, stolen from their houses, through all kinds of means, by Europeans. Now it was her turn, because now she had reached the age for theft. Like them, she could do nothing. She knew she would have surrendered like the others, had Plikemboh not been so hideous.

The air was cold and the wind whistled and whistled. Her legs walked as if they had a will of their own. To the south, to one particular spot: a village that was at that moment being destroyed by smallpox. “No one will protect me,” she whispered to the night as it covered her in darkness. “If my own parents can't do anything, what is to be done, as long as they never come to curse me.”

Without her realizing it, a plan had formed, the plan of a winged ant that wanted to fly into the flames of a fire.

During those tense days, she had tried to gather together the courage to decide. And she could not decide. A maiden dwells in silent loneliness, alone in life. Her only friend is the hope of happiness. Without the hope of happiness, she has lost everything. There is no one with whom she can talk. If she makes what seems like a decision, it is in reality only a surrender to what is going to happen. At the moment Castro Kassier had decided, such a surrender became an unshakable resolve. One thing that had made its way into her mind at the time was the smallpox epidemic. What must happen now? The coming together of herself and the smallpox epidemic. She would do it.

From behind her came the howls of a pack of wolves that had recently roamed about seeking victims. The curfew had allowed the wolf packs to become kings of the night. Several times already, villagers' stock had been attacked and destroyed. She was not afraid; the oppression in her spirit had overcome fear. She walked on. Only if she heard the lonely cry of a bird did she stop and look. Perhaps the bird was calling after the moon or crying out its longing for a lover who would never arrive.

She had covered almost ten miles. Sweat soaked her body. The moon was starting to peek out from behind the horizon of silhouetted trees. She stopped under one tree, checking whether she could see anything in the distance. She did not want to be seen by anybody or meet anybody. She checked behind her and to her left and right. There was nothing suspicious. But she remained alert at the places shrouded in thicker darkness. Still and quiet, as if she were the only person on this earth. And the cries of the night birds made the night seem even stiller.

Many times during the last two weeks the army had ordered a curfew. People obeyed. Only the army and police were allowed out, but she did not see even a single soldier.

She traveled on for about another five miles. In the distance she could see a blinking glow in the night sky, like a lamp that had almost run out of oil: campfires among clusters of bamboo. That was the village where she was headed. The campfires were army posts. The soldiers weren't visible. She kept on walking. She knew the army had issued orders that no one was to approach closer than a mile. The people in the village weren't allowed out. Those outside weren't allowed in. Those in the village were pitilessly given up to die, without compassion—sacrifice to Lord Smallpox.

If I die there with them, then I will be dead, her heart whispered to the night wind. It would not be long, and all would be over. Surati was going to kill herself. She had accepted what was to happen. And she felt as though she could still decide, not like Aunt Sanikem. She herself must bring an end to herself.

And if I do not die, it must truly be my destiny to become the woman of that hateful and hideous man. What is to be done, Father, Mother...

The closer she came to the village, the farther she moved away from the roads, plunging into the paddy and through the broken-down, neglected fields. The scratches on her feet and body from the leaves about her went unfelt. She did not even lift up her kain.

She was startled when she disturbed some ducks sleeping peacefully under a bush. The animals scattered, screeching with frightened protests. The ducks had no one looking after them, she thought; perhaps their owners had been killed by the smallpox.

Now she plunged through fields wrecked by wild pigs and deer. Her clothes were covered with grass blossoms. Her hair had fallen loose and was now tangled. She didn't care. Her hairpin had fallen who knows where.

The moon shone brighter and brighter. The tongues of fire in the distance seemed to grow larger. Some Dutch soldiers could now be seen running back and forth. The wind began to blow strongly. She knew the village perimeter was patrolled continuously. The nearer she came, the lower she crouched. Finally she began to crawl, like a forest pig.

The fires that lit the soldiers' camp receded into the distance as she moved away. She kept crawling, making no sound, like a cat. Her hands and feet were covered in blood, cut by the thorns and sharp brush along the way. She sought a rift in the bamboo that fenced off the village. In vain. It was not easy: The clusters of bamboo weren't smooth bamboo, but thickets of the thorny variety.

She had forgotten her own problems, her own troubles. Her whole being was concentrated on the effort to enter that village, to break through the bamboo fence. Every hole, every gateway, was guarded by soldiers and tongues of fire. Without any sharp instrument, with only her bare hands—the hands of a young girl who had never done any real physical work—she was unable to break through. She had to climb over. So she began her attempts to climb over the bamboo—the first such experience in her whole life.

In the distance she could hear soldiers greeting each other in Dutch: “Who goes there!” “A friend!”

In silence, she listened alertly. The voices went away.

I must climb down, she whispered to a stalk of bamboo. But still she didn't climb down. A lone, gaunt cow dawdled silently along. She could vaguely hear the hungry lowing of other cattle. She cast her eyes across the village on the other side of the bamboo fence. Here and there stood huts with grass roofs, like giant animals trying to hide themselves. The moon shone brighter, reluctantly throwing its light upon all that lived on the earth. She no longer wanted to look up at the moon, whereas in the past she had so often gazed at it while singing with her friends. This time she had to force herself to look; perhaps it would be the last time.

She climbed down into the village carefully, freeing herself from the view of the soldiers and from the jabs of the bamboo's thorns. The ground below the cluster of bamboo was blanketed in fallen leaves. They rustled under the tread of her feet. She stood silently, listening for sounds. Between the whistling shrieks of the harsh wind as it charged into the bamboo clusters, she heard again the lowering of starving cattle. Perhaps they were still tethered in their corrals. No human sound could be heard. Now she was a member of this village. Like the others, she had surrendered unconditionally to the smallpox. She walked on, looking for the cattle that were lowing so weakly. The moon lit her way to a house with a corral at the back. She lit a match and looked for the cross-bar. There was no human inside, just a pregnant cow. She undid the rope that tied the cow. The animal walked slowly, heading towards a spot from where the grass sent out its delicious aroma. She gazed at the animal, which had no intention of saying thank you, then walked on again. Under a jambling bush, she saw a she-goat and its kids, sprawled out dead from hunger and thirst. The she-goat was still tethered. It seemed it had just given birth, unwitnessed by anyone.

The moon was shrouded in cloud. Once again Surati forced herself to look up, as if she wished to memorize its face forever before the smallpox entered her body and escorted her to the universe of souls.

Those that live, let them live, she whispered; the dead, lie still in your muteness; don't disturb me.

Then, confidently, without hesitation, she stepped into a hut. She heard a weak voice coming from inside. “Is there someone there?”

There was no answer. She opened another door. Darkness gaped out at her from the doorway. Yes, she had heard a voice, a very weak one. She lit a match, and saw a bloated, wheezing baby lying beside its dead mother. A gaunt baby, fleshless, covered in filth. Both lay on a tattered bamboo mat. The match burned out. She lit another and then the kerosene lamp that hung from a nail on a wall.

The soldiers would never dare come here, she thought.

Behind the door, she found another corpse—a man, bare-chested, sprawled on the ground, dead. His right hand reached out. Perhaps he was trying to reach his baby, his loved one.

The man looked very young, less than twenty years old. Surati herself was younger.

The still living baby she took and cuddled. It had the smell of rotten fish about it and its body was hot. She took a bottle of drinking water from her bag and gave some to the baby, but the child was no longer able to swallow. The end for it too was near.

Far away she could hear the trumpets of the soldiers. She didn't know what they signaled. She didn't care. She held the dry, shriveled child, dirty and rotten-smelling, as though holding one of her little sisters at home. She hugged the small weightless body to her breast. She kissed it as if saying good-bye, good-bye forever, then to be together again, also forever.

Under the rays of light from the kerosene lamp, the baby finally reached death's door. Surati began to sing a lullaby so that this very young soul would be able to sleep in eternity caressed by the love of another human being—a human being it had never known. She cleaned the baby's face with the corner of her kebaya.

The child convulsed for a moment, quickly expelling its final breaths. Surati did not know the child's name. She had never seen a human being on its deathbed. She was not afraid in this encirclement of death. She felt so close, such a friend to them all; soon she too would be part of it all. Death? What lies beyond death? At least, for sure, she would not be meeting Plikemboh. Why are people afraid of death? And why am I not afraid? When the smallpox has entered my body, and death arrives...no, she was not afraid. The curse of one's parents was more terrible than death. Enter, you smallpox, come into me.

She put the baby down beside its mother. She pulled its father over with great difficulty. The corpse was already stiff. At least, now, the baby was sleeping together with its mama and papa. For a moment she looked at the two parents at peace in death, together again forever. She felt happy that she had done this, as if she had done some deed of unrivaled goodness, that had never been done by anyone else ever, except by Surati.

She found nothing in the hut except some torn cloths piled up on an overturned bench. With these she covered them as with a blanket. She put out the lamp, went outside, and closed the door.

She had heard rumors that the soldiers were going to spray the village with kerosene and set it on fire. Not now; that was still five days away. The village heads in the district had protested against the plans: It wasn't right to burn people alive. It was not certain that everyone would be killed by the smallpox. But the government doctor, Lieutenant Doctor H. H. Mortsinger, had calculated that everyone would die within two more days. Even if some hadn't died, they might spread the epidemic, so they should be wiped out as well. The village heads' protests resulted in the decision to postpone the burning for a few days, to give everyone a chance to die naturally. The burning was still to go ahead.

To die by fire, there was nothing wrong with that either, thought Surati.

She found more corpses outside the house. Some parts of the bodies had been bitten by animals. They had all begun to ooze blood, corrupting the air with their smell. She became aware of the stench of carcasses coming at her from all directions. The dense rottenness was like the rising scent of incense sticks, bearing her to a faraway universe, a place she had never realized existed until now.

Surati lived thus for three days and two nights in that village. She began to feel the hair on her body creep whenever the wind blew. I have caught the disease, she told herself. Very early in the morning she found a well and bathed. She took out the best clothes in her bag. She began to adorn herself. She put on all the jewelry and other adornments that she owned. She knew the fever was starting to attack. In the darkness of the night, she climbed once more over the bamboo. She moved quickly, as if she knew by instinct exactly how far she must travel. It was as if she were racing against the fever that was dancing within her. A few more days and I will be dead. And I will take you with me, Plikemboh! Everybody then will be free from your torments: children, women, and your workers! Perhaps the world will be a little more beautiful without you.

The fever in her seemed to weaken, subjugated by her will, unable to suck up her strength and her determination. I must get safely to your house, Plikemboh, looking fresh, young, and pretty.

A girl who was not from a peasant family would never have been taught to walk quickly; indeed she would have been forbidden to do so. But Surati's legs took stride after stride, penetrating the darkness and the night mist, half-running over the paddy-field dikes, now overgrown with weeds.

Now she held her sarong by its corners so it would not be soiled by the weeds' blossoms.

She had covered five miles. Yet there was still no sweat on her. She walked another few miles and a few more again. Then she stopped under some trees and descended into a big ditch. She washed herself again. At the peak of the moon's mist-covered brightness, she put on her makeup once more. For a long time she sat under the tree, not thinking of anything. During those last few days, she had stopped thinking, surrendering herself to the flow of events as they happened, as though she were part of nature itself, like the wind, like the water, like the earth. She began to see people out walking on that dark morning. She too stood up, walking slowly so as not to ruin her makeup and her adornments, just like a woman of the aristocracy. Slowly enough even to control her sway.

As the sun rose, Tulangan became vaguely visible behind the mist. She saw several carriages carrying goods and heading for the markets of Sidoarjo.

On entering Tulangan she stopped and whispered to herself. Here I am, coming to you, Tuan Besar Kuasa Manager. Greet me, Surati!

The factory office was open when she arrived. The roads around the factory were busy with coolies pushing loaded carts. She didn't know what they carried, nor did she have any desire to know. Her legs took her straight to Plikemboh's house.

She announced herself formally. In her imagination she could see Aunt Sanikem, a score or more years ago, standing before this same house, there to become the concubine of Tuan Mellema. The door was open, but no one answered her. She sat on the steps with her back to the house. Her dried food was finished. She felt hungry. The fever was still obedient to her plan.

She heard slippered footsteps behind her. She stood facing the door, bowed, and once again announced herself.

Plikemboh emerged still wearing his pajamas. He stood gazing at her, and at once recognized who she was. “Sastro Kassier's daughter?” he asked joyfully, and sped down the stairs to fetch her. “It is I, your servant, the daughter of Castro Kassier, Tuan Besar Kuasa.”

She ascended the steps, escorted by Plikemboh, and surrendered herself to be taken into his room—the place that forever would be the boundary that marked the end of her life as a virgin and the beginning of her condition as a kept mistress.

Take me! Take all you can get from me, she thought, and may you soon be destroyed.

As soon as she entered the room, the smallpox ran amok within her. Her strength was broken. From the moment she lay prostrate on Plikemboh's bed, she was unable to rise again. And very quickly Plikemboh too became infected. During those last few days, they both lay sprawled out on the bed, awaiting death.

Tulangan was pronounced an epidemic area. All work stopped. The traffic was stilled. Those who managed to sneak through the government's encirclement ran for their lives, forgetting position and income. The sugarcane fields were left unattended. The steam-generated electric plant was mute. The factory whistle went dumb. Tulangan was in darkness. The chimneys lost their grandness, craning forward, looking down on Tulangan as if wanting to know what was happening, nodding sadly, but no eyes cared to look up at them.

The village across the fields, which Surati had left behind, was burned out by the soldiers, destroyed together with all its trees that the villagers had looked after for many years. Tulangan itself was not set on fire. Doctors were brought in from all over Java to end the epidemic. A big sugar mill must not be destroyed just because of smallpox. Capital must be kept alive to grow, and people can be left to die.

Lieutenant Doctor Mortsinger was also called to Tulangan with all the medical troops from the antiepidemic service in Bandung. Inoculation was carried out in Tulangan and all the surrounding areas. But the encirclement of Tulangan was kept unmercifully tight. People could neither leave nor enter. People were even forbidden from leaving their houses. Food was brought in and shared out. Every day people buried the victims.

The first to die was Tuan Besar Kuasa Manager, Frits Homerus Vlekkenbaaij, alias Plikemboh.

Surati was still prostrate on the bed when the heavy corpse was taken from beside her to be burned. Only then did people find out that the maiden had already begun her life as a nyai. And hadn't died.

Even while facing the threat of death by smallpox, all the people of Tulangan, regardless of race, Native, Pure, or Mixed-Blood, stopped to thank God for the death of Tuan Besar Kuasa Manager. To them his corpse was a talisman that would protect Tulangan from disaster. But no one ever found out who it was that had really killed him.

The young mistress was carried home by her mother, whose insults and abuse of Castro Kassier never silenced.

Sastro Kassier himself did not stay silent. The death of his boss gave him the chance to make his accusations. Witnessed by local officials, a search was made of his late employer's things. There, in a cupboard, they found the missing money, still intact. Sastro Kassier remained triumphant as the honest paymaster, but his honor as a husband and father was gone, and would never return.

So, too, was Surati's beauty gone forever.

And the sugar mill of Tulangan remained grand in its command over all of Tulangan: humans, animals, and growing things.

8

For three days we had been resting in Tulangan. The new manager who had replaced Plikemboh sent a letter to Mama, inviting her to come and have a look around the factory. Mama turned down the invitation. He then came to Sastro Kassier's house to invite her in person. He was very young, about thirty years old. Mama refused the invitation again.

I don't know why the master of that sugar mill felt he had to invite Mama. Mama herself had never mentioned having any special business with him.

Kommer also sent us a letter: He would not be able to visit us. He couldn't leave the carpenters while they were making his trap. It was proving to be quite difficult to make.

Every day Mama and I went for a walk through the paddy fields, plantations, and villages. She was really changed; the dark, eerie aura about her had vanished. She was truly enjoying her holidays. She didn't look at all like a widow, nor like someone out walking with her son-in-law, himself a widower. She looked like a young maiden, not yet married.

Her walk was confident and free like that of a European woman. She always wore the kebaya that for a century had been the fashion for Indos, nyais, and now for Chinese women to wear. Very few Native women wore them, at most a few from the elite classes, and perhaps their children. Most wore a simple cloth wrap or even went totally bare-breasted.

Nyai Ontosoroh's beautiful and delicately embroidered kebaya became the focus of everybody's attention. Such a kebaya was still rare in the villages, and its whiteness and the brightness of its embroidery shone out in the middle of all this greenness, drawing all eyes to it.

On the fourth day she wouldn't go for a walk and sent me out by myself.

So on that day, in European clothes (people called them Christian clothes), carrying a bag containing pen and paper, a bottle of water, and a little dried food, I set off alone in a southerly direction. My plan was to visit the village that the government had burned down, the one that Surati had visited.

In the middle of the ocean of sugar cane I saw something odd: the tiled roof of a house. Whose? Somebody's home, or a place for workers to take shade? The trees behind it showed that cane did not grow around it. Probably somebody's house-garden.

It wasn't out of mere curiosity that I set off in the direction of the house, but because I wanted to accustom myself to taking an interest in everything that was related to the lives of the Natives, my people.

The path, hemmed in on either side by the cane, was still and quiet. Not a single person passed me. But from the direction of the tiled house came the sound of muffled shouts, roughly spoken words.

The sun radiated shafts of heat. Sweat soaked my back. The air was fresh and invigorating. My body felt unconstrained by the etiquette required when escorting Mama. I walked along, enjoying it all to the full, savoring how healthy I was. I felt fortunate to be alone in the middle of this greenness. I had never in all my life gone for a hike alone and so far. Perhaps I had already traveled more than three miles.

This was the same road that Surati had once traveled, not in the midday heat like this, but in night's pitch darkness, before the moon had risen.

The cane to my right and left would ripen in a few months' time. It would become sugar, helping to make Java the second biggest producer of sugar in the world. The sugar would be dispersed over the earth to many countries and give enjoyment and health to millions of people. And the name Tulangan? No one would ever hear of it.

There were those shouts again.

The path I was following branched out. A lane led to the suspicious-looking house.

A farmer with a hoe at his waist passed me. He raised his bamboo hat, bowed without looking at me—only because I was wearing European clothes, Christian clothes. He was heading towards the main road. Perhaps he was a cane cutter. “What's all the shouting about?” I asked in Javanese. “The usual, Ndoró. Old Truno is not like everyone else.” “Who is this Truno?” “The one who lives there, Ndoro.” “In that house?” “Yes, Ndoro.”

"Why are they shouting at him like that?" “He won't move out of his house.” “Why must he move?”

My barrage of questions scared the peasant. He shrank back, bowed, raised his bamboo hat again, excused himself. Perhaps he had been among those shouting just now.

The shouts came again. Now it was clear what they were saying, in crude Javanese: “When are you getting out of there?”

Other shouts followed from several mouths at once, but I was unable to pick up what they were saying. Then there were further angry exchanges and cries for Truno to get out. What was happening in the middle of this ocean of cane?

Because I had been accused of not knowing my own people, yes, and because of curiosity, my legs took me closer to the location of the quarrel. Perhaps I could learn to understand their problems. Without my realizing, my feet were now carrying me more quickly. I no longer took any notice of the foliage above me as the branches and twigs squeaked against each other whenever the wind blew.

In this very lane the tile-roofed house stood. It was made out of thick bamboo. In front of the house stood a mustached man with a thick beard, bare-chested, wearing black trousers down to just below his knee. In his hand was a machete with that just-honed shine about it. His eyes were wild. He was now standing alone. On seeing me, his eyes popped out in challenge. “Pak!” I shouted, in friendly Javanese. “Who was making all the noise just now?”

He still stared at me wild-eyed as if I were his enemy. I stopped in front of the bamboo gate. “What?” he hissed in low Javanese. “You too?” I was offended. I could feel the blood rise into my face. A Javanese had never spoken so roughly towards me, let alone used the familiar form for you. No doubt he was that kind of insolent Javanese, hadn't been properly educated, I thought. Then quick as lightning came the voice of Jean Marais, accusing me: You are not fair, Minke; what right would you now have to abuse him? What have you done for him? Just because you are the grandson and the son of a bupati? You say you understand the great call of the French Revolution? What's the use of having graduated from H.B.S.?

A smile of awareness crept onto my lips. I must remain friendly. “Don't be angry with me, Pak. I'm not your enemy.” “Every single day...” The man frowned, yet my friendliness did relax him a little. “What is it, Pak?” "...like a pack of barking dogs!" It poured out in sharp tones. “Who, Pak,” I asked affably, “is like a pack of barking dogs?”

He observed me with suspicion. It was unusual for a Javanese peasant farmer to be suspicious of his superiors. Peasants had no right to be suspicious. It was clear that this one peasant had “escaped the prongs of the rake,” had turned his back on the proper way of behaving. Like an elephant that had left its herd, as Nijman had said about Khouw Ah Soe, a Javanese peasant who refused to fit himself to the old mold was also dangerous. Machete in hand, loud voice, not listening to orders: All this was evidence. “Don't get me wrong, Pak, I've only just arrived.”

He wouldn't give up his suspicions. His smallish eyes stood out as if they were not interested in ever blinking again. Indeed they seemed ready to hurl themselves out of their sockets at any minute. I must try to win his trust. Must! Must! There's no way of getting close to somebody without first making contact with his heart.

Daring myself to go on, I took a step forward, passing through the gate, not without having to suppress my fear. “What's really going on here?” I asked affably. “Is Ndoro a priyayi from the mill?” he suddenly asked in high Javanese, a question that also struck me as insolent. “No. I have just arrived from Surabaya. I am not an official from the mill. I'm still at school, Pak. I write for newspapers, that's my work.”

With savage eyes—not normal either for a Javanese peasant—he looked me over from the top of my head to the tips of my shoes. “This machete is not just good for cutting down banana trees,” he growled threateningly in low Javanese. “One more time, and someone will cop it." “What is it? What is it?” I asked, in the politest of ways. “I don't care who he is, Javanese, Madurese, Dutch soldier, one more howl from them...”

His anger passed its climax with these growls and threats. “Is Ndoró one of them or not?” He turned abruptly, interrogating me. More insolence. “Who do you mean by them?”

Once more he challenged my eyes, and looked at my bag. “They,” he said savagely, “are those factory dogs who just left. This is my own land. What business is it of theirs what I do with it.” He wiped sweat from his back.

Unease squatted in my heart; he had gone back to speaking in low Javanese. He had forgotten what class he belonged to. So why should I treat him so well? But you have resolved to become more familiar with your own people! You must understand their troubles. He is one of those fellow countrymen of yours about whom you know nothing, one of your own people, a people you say you want to write about, once you have begun to understand them.

"Of course this is your own land," I encouraged him, and myself too. “Five bahu, inherited from my parents.” “You're right,” I said, “I saw it noted down in the Land Office.” “Yes, it's registered in the Land Office.” He spoke to himself. The tension began to recede. Slowly he was returning to being a humble Javanese peasant. “Can I visit you, Pak?” I said in an even more friendly way. His grip on the machete began to relax. I took another step forward. “If you aren't angry with me, I'd like to know what this is all about. Who knows, perhaps I can help?” I took another step.

He didn't answer, but turned around and headed for the house. I followed. He threw his machete down inside the house. He fetched a straw broom and swept clean the bamboo bench at the entrance. “Please, Ndoró, this is the best I can offer.”

So I sat on the bamboo bench, adorned with a bamboo mat. He stood with hands clasped before me. He was beginning to trust me, I hoped. "All right, tell me why you are so angry," I asked. “Yes, Ndoro, I have already been very patient. My inheritance was five bahu—three paddy fields, two dry fields—and this house garden. Three bahu are being used by the mill. I didn't happily rent them out but was brutally forced to do so by the mill priyayi, the village head, all kinds of officials, and God knows how many others! The land was contracted for eighteen months. Eighteen months! But now it has been two years! You have to wait until the cane stumps have all been dug out. Except if you want to put your thumbprint to another contract for the next harvest season. What's the contract money worth anyway? You can count it up as much as you like, they never pay in full anyway. Those dogs, Ndoro...now even my dry fields—they want those too. The trees will be torn down to make way for the cane!” “How much do you get for one bahu?” I asked, as I took my writing implements from my bag, knowing that all of Java's peasants respected a pen. I was ready to take notes. “Twenty-two, Ndoro,” he answered fluently. Amazing. “Twenty-two perak for every bahu, for use for over eighteen months!” I exclaimed. “Yes, Ndoro.” “How much did you receive?” “Fifteen perak.” “Where did the other seven go?” “How would I know, Ndoro? Put your thumbprint down, they said. No more than fifteen perak a bahu. Eighteen months, they said. In reality, two years, until the cane stump and roots were dug out.” “They dig out the roots themselves?” “Of course, Ndoro. They don't want to see the stumps grow and ripen again, become new cane fields again. They don't want the farmers around here to get any leftover cane without paying, without working.”

I wrote and wrote; and it seemed that he was beginning to respect me. But I didn't know what he really thought of me. “Now you must listen; let me read out to you everything that you have just told me. Eh, what's Bapak's name?” “Trunodongso, Ndoro.”

I stopped a moment on hearing that name. My grandfather had once warned me against peasants who use the name Truno. Such people, he said, are usually quick-tempered, especially when young. And sometimes they are even quicker-tempered in their old age. People choose that name hoping they will be able to maintain the spirit of their youth, to keep their strength and health right to the end. And, said my grandfather, such people usually study the martial arts before they marry. I didn't know whether he was right or not. “So Trunodongso is your name. Good, let me read this to you.”

I read out in Javanese what I had written and he nodded at the end of each sentence. “This will be printed in the newspapers. All the clever and important people up there will read it. Perhaps Tuan Besar Governor-General, bupatis, residents, controllers, all of them. They will investigate all this. They will then know that there is a farmer named Trunodongso who is being forced from his land and his paddy, and is recovering only fifteen perak for each bahu that is rented by the sugar mill.” “Wah, Ndoro.” He freed his hand from its polite clasp, ready to protest. “It's not like that,” he began. “You're taking back what you've told me?” “No, Ndoro, it's all true. But I am not the only one who has received only fifteen perak. That's all any of the farmers around here have received, Ndoro.” “Everyone?” “Everyone, except the village officials.” “How much did they get?” “No one knows, Ndoro. But we do know that none of them are complaining. Never!” “But people have the right not to rent their land if that's what they want.” “Yes. That is my situation, Ndoro, I don't want to rent out my land but every day I'm threatened, taunted, insulted. Now they threaten that the lane to my house will be closed off. If you want to get to your house and land, they say, you'll have to fly. They have already closed the channels bringing water to my paddy fields. I couldn't farm the paddy, so I had to rent it out.”

This kind of thing was something I had never come across before. I wrote everything down. Trunodongso went on and on. All that he had been unable to say for so long was now poured out to me. I was no longer noting down just words, but the fate of who knows how many thousands, how many tens of thousands of peasant farmers like him. Perhaps this was the fate of all the sugar region's farmers. And he was not facing just Europeans, but Natives too: village officials, civil officials, the factory officials, including Sastro Kassier no doubt. My note-taking became even more enthusiastic. And Trunodongso became even more open with me.

A girl appeared, carrying a bamboo basket, walking towards a well beside that bamboo house. She pulled up the water using a bamboo scoop and started washing some clothes in an earthenware dish. “Is that your daughter?” I asked.

He nodded. “How many children do you have altogether?” “Five, Ndoro. Two boys—they're out hoeing in the field now. The others are girls.” “Five. May I come in and have a look around Bapak's house?” I asked politely. “Please come in, but it's very dirty.”

I went inside the house. There were no windows. There was no cow or buffalo inside, but a tethering post standing in the corner indicated that a large animal had lived with the family at some other time or other. “Where's the cow, Pak?” “What's the use of a cow if you have no paddy, Ndoro? I've sold it.”

There was no furniture except for a big bamboo bench and a kerosene lamp hanging from a bamboo pole. In the corner lay a hoe with lumps of fresh dirt clinging to it.

I thanked God that this quick-tempered farmer had been restored to the original Trunodongso, friendly, generous with his smiles, polite, and humble, no longer hiding evil feelings. “Where's your wife, Pak?” “Just left for the market, Ndoro.”

I called to the little girl doing the washing. She ran to her father. Her eyes were tired, as though she had never had her proper fill of dreams—or perhaps because she had ringworm. “What are you cooking today.” “Depends what Ma brings home, Ndoro, from the market,” she answered, looking into her father's eyes. “Look, I want to eat here tonight, yes; would you like to cook for me?”

Once more she quizzed her father with her sleepy eyes. Her father answered with a little bow of the head. Her voice was very, very polite: “Of course, Ndoro, I would be very happy to cook for Ndoro, but it's sure to taste terrible. A village child, remember, that's what I am." “So we'll eat together tonight. How many altogether? Seven?” “Then I must get some firewood,” Trunodongso excused himself. “But Ndoro won't be ashamed to eat here?”

How happy was my heart to feel this family was beginning to lose its suspicion of me. I added quickly: “Is the market far from here?” “No, Ndoro, it's quite close,” answered Piah, the little girl. I knew in fact that the market was near Tulangan. “Here is some money. Go and buy something. It's up to you what you cook,” and I handed Piah two coins.

Once more the child looked up at her father. Trunodongso glanced around, pretending not to see. I put my bag down on the bench and went outside the house.

I felt a happiness blooming in my breast. I drew the free air deep into my lungs and threw out my two arms like a garuda about to fly into the sky. What Kommer had said indeed seemed true: If you're willing to pay a little attention, a whole new continent arises, with mountains and rivers, islands and waterways. I will stay upon this new continent for a while longer. Columbus was not the only person to discover a new continent. So too have I.

I strolled around outside the house. At the back, clothes were drying—clean rags, really. And he was a farmer with five bahu of his own land, including three bahu of first-class paddy fields! If he'd been able to refuse surrendering his dry fields, why hadn't he been able to refuse handing over his paddy? His remaining dry fields were the last bastion of his livelihood. He had to defend it to the end. If he didn't, his whole family could be turned into vagabonds.

The air streaming through the thickets of trees was truly refreshing. The freshness of the air was present, but also the staleness of life—a continent with great mountain peaks, deep chasms.

A drain carrying the dirty water from the well wound aimlessly about; ducks were scratching in the mud looking for worms. Under a bush, three chicks fought over who was the eldest. A pregnant cat—yellow-colored—slept in the sun on a pile of old leaves. A row of banana trees, not one of which had an upright trunk, leaned sleepily to one side. In the distance, Trunodongso was cutting down a tree with his machete. He chopped it up and piled the wood together in the middle of the thicket.

As I moved farther away from the house, I could see more closely the nature of the tidily farmed corn and sweet-potato fields. The border between the back-yard garden and the fields proper was marked by a row of coffee trees, thick with fruit, and protected by the umbrella of closely planted coconut palms. It seemed that this family could live off their own fields—except for clothes and sugar.

Trunodongso had disappeared into the house carrying a hand of bananas. No smoke came from the kitchen yet. At the edge of the field, where it met the mill's cane, I found two of Trunodongso's sons hoeing the ground. They stopped working as soon as they saw me and laid down their hoes. They showed me great respect, yet were also obviously surprised and afraid. More than that: suspicious. “Are you Pak Truno's sons?” “Yes, Ndoro.” They took off their bamboo hats and threw them on the ground. They were aged sixteen and fourteen. There were no pictures of Queen Wilhelmina back in their house—neither had finished primary school. “This is the border with the factory's cane?” “Yes, Ndoro.” “Aren't they suspicious of you two if any cane goes missing?”

The two of them consulted with their eyes. I saw suspicion in those consultations, and fear. “No, I'm not from the factory,” I said. Still they didn't seem to believe, and were afraid. “I'm staying at your house at the moment. Later on we'll eat together.” They glanced back and forth at each other again; then without answering dropped their gaze to their feet. “You've never been accused of stealing cane?” I asked again.

They shot a look at me from the corners of their eyes, then their eyes consulted once more. “Don't really know, Ndoro,” the eldest answered.

They were still suspicious and afraid; that's how all farmers felt towards nonfarmers. The anonymous pamphlet that my exiled teacher Magda Peters gave me had said: The peasant farmers of Java were afraid of all outsiders, because their experiences over the centuries had shown them that outsiders —individuals or groups—would thieve everything they owned. These two young boys, with hoe in hand, sickle at their feet, were afraid of me for no other reason than because I was not one of them. Because my clothes were not the kind they wore.

What that pamphlet said was exactly right. A European had written it. He knew about the Javanese peasants. And I was just now discovering this continent. I was now witnessing that bottom point in their lives: being under the sway of fear and suspicion.

If one day they should cross the limits of their fear and suspicion—so that brochure said—this group of people living under God's sun, who aren't used to thinking rationally, will rise up in an explosion of blind fury; they will run amok. They could explode individually or in a group. And their targets would be anyone who was not one of them, who wasn't a peasant farmer. Such indeed was the condition of these pitiable beings who had never known the learning of the world: In no time at all their fury would be suppressed by the army, and they would be broken forever. For three hundred years! So that anyone from whatever group who can humor and capture their hearts they will follow—in religion, to the battlefield, or to annihilation.

I remembered the pamphlet's words well, and so as not to arouse any more fear in these boys' hearts, I moved away. I walked back towards the house, thinking to myself along the way: Perhaps if I had not come and shown my sympathy to Trunodongso, he might have wielded his machete, cutting down whomever he could. The pamphlet had also said: They would run amok not really in self-defense, nor to attack or to take revenge, but only because they no longer knew what else to do once their last opportunity of life had been stolen.

That pamphlet's author, Anonymous, I had to admit, was very knowledgeable. It was clear that the peasants themselves did not understand their own condition. But in that other corner of the world, in the Netherlands, people did know; they knew exactly what the situation was. They even understood the psychology of the peasantry as a class. And all this was in a pamphlet written by a Dutchman living in the Netherlands. It was true what Jean Marais had said: You study the languages of Europe to understand Europe. Through Europe you can learn to understand your own people. To study the languages of Europe does not mean you cannot speak to your own people, and that you should speak only to Europeans.

I went on towards the bamboo house. It was not only from Europe that so much could be learned! This modern age had provided many breasts to suckle me—from among the Natives themselves, from Japan, China, America, India, Arabia, from all the peoples on the face of this earth. They were the mother wolves that gave me life to become a builder of Rome! Is it true you will build a Rome? Yes, I answered myself. How? I don't know. In humility, I realized I am a child of all nations, of all ages, past and present. Place and time of birth, parents, all are coincidence: such things are not sacred.

Back in the house I went on with my writing. But the first sentence was not what I had been thinking as I walked back: “And evil too came from all nations, from all ages.”

I wrote and wrote until all that I wished to write was finished. I flopped my body down upon the bamboo sleeping bench and fell asleep, forgetting all that had been happening around me.

Who knows how long I slept. Indeed I hadn't had enough sleep the night before. I had been overcome by my passion to finish the notes about Surati. Shouting startled me and my eyes flew open, but I still lay there on the divan-bench. “I only got five coins for the chicken. Not enough to buy any clothes for you, just some pants for your father.”

Realizing that the voice was that of an adult woman, I quickly got up. No doubt it was Trunodongso's wife, home from the market. Her smallest daughters followed behind. On seeing me Truno's wife stopped in front of the house, bowed down again and again, then walked off around the side of the house to the back.

It appeared that Piah had begun cooking in the kitchen. I could smell the aroma of frying chicken. All of a sudden my stomach was calling out for food.

Now I could hear Piah speaking in low Javanese to her mama: “When will I get some clothes, Ma?”

I couldn't hear the answer. I took out the gold pocket watch my mother had given me for a wedding present. It was four o'clock, and my stomach was making wild demands.

Trunodongso came outside to the bench and invited me in to eat. He apologized for not daring to awaken me earlier. Inside there was a woven bamboo mat with the food laid out on it. There was only one plate. The curry was in an earthenware bowl and the rice in a bamboo basket. Ground chili and dried fish lay crushed in the earthen bowl. The stone pestle stood in the bowl on top of the chilled fish. “Please, Ndoro.” “Let us eat together, Pak, with all the children and Ma Trunodongso.”

"It's all right like this, Ndoro; there's only one plate." “Then we can all eat from banana leaves.”

An argument started. Finally Trunodongso gave in. Everybody was mobilized to eat together off banana leaves. More food was brought out from the kitchen. I did not regret doing this, even though I knew it was torture for them to eat with me. They were so afraid of taking any of the chicken, especially the fried chicken. It turned out to be as hard as wood. So then I knew: This family had never cooked chicken before, not even the ones they owned themselves.

Seeing that they were hesitating to start, I finished my meal quickly and went for a stroll outside to get some fresh air.

After dinner the following conversation took place. “If Bapak worked that land yourself, would you be much better off?”

For the first time Trunodongso laughed. “When my parents were still alive, heaps of paddy surrounded this house. There were many chickens and ducks. A few years before they died, the factory started pressuring them to give over the land. My father refused. Then the village chief came, then his second-in-command. My father still refused. Then the paddy-field water canals were blocked farther up, on factory land. There was no more water. My father—" “Weren't the canals built by the farmers themselves? Not the factory?” “Sure, Ndoro. I myself helped build them. A week it took, I remember it well. At the end of clearing my section of land there was a great pile of fallen leaves. There were many snakes—no less than seven.” “No one was bitten?” “Ah, just little lizards really, Ndoro.” “How much were you paid?” “Paid? No one paid us.”

He liked to watch me write down his answers. And I was certainly not going to disappoint him. I would pour it all out in the newspapers. I could already guess that there would be a great commotion. Perhaps this man before me now would become the main figure in some great story about the farmers of the sugar-cane regions. He was becoming more and more interesting. The more marks I made on the paper, the more he trusted me, and the easier it became to enter his mind.

I recalled again my grandfather's warning about people with the name Truno. Such people, my grandfather told me, would fight the government or become rebel bandits. Uh! the names of Javanese! As a writer of newspaper advertisements, it was my view that if grandfather's words were true, the names that the Javanese took were no different than advertisements, whose messages were by no means truthful.

Very carefully I asked him: Did he like to fight? “No,” he said, “but indeed I did study martial arts when I was young.” So he was a fighter; my grandfather's words were right. “Have you been involved in fights?” I asked.

His eyes narrowed, as if defending themselves from an attack. Realizing that the question had aroused his suspicion again, I quickly added that my grandfather had made me study martial arts too. I studied for three years before graduating. But, I said, I had never been in a real fight.

He listened to my story with eyes full of life—the narrowness disappeared. He was indeed a fighter. No wonder the factory people didn't dare any reckless attempt to throw him out.

I quickly turned the conversation away from fighting. He must not become suspicious again. Issue after issue emerged. I wrote and wrote. This person was interesting: Unlike other peasant farmers, he dared state his opinion, even though his approach was roundabout and he never went directly to the issue. And the more questions I asked him, the happier he was giving his answers. I thought he might have been a laborer in a town once. But I didn't ask. “Might I stay here tonight?” I asked.

He was surprised at my request. I wanted to stay overnight so I could study a little about how he lived. As expected, out came excuse after excuse. But I was unyielding. With great reluctance he finally gave his agreement. His youngest child was sent off with a letter to Mama in Tulangan.

So it was that I stayed the night.

That night the fireplace was lit, as was the custom if you kept livestock. Smoke filled the windowless space. My lungs were hot and tight. As the evening wore on, the silence was broken by the croaking of the tree frogs. I was given a place on the edge of the big sleeping bench. The other children, boys and girls, slept on my left. Their breathing seemed to speak to each other; they took turns in coughing. The fire finally went out. Then the mosquitoes attacked from above, the bedbugs from below. Ya Allah, how peaceful they all were in their sleep, and I could not even keep my eyes closed in my torment.

For how many hundreds, thousands of years, generation after generation, have they slept like this? Human beings with great resilience, great strength. Every other moment, my hand moved to get rid of a mosquito or bedbug. My eyes still wouldn't close. Slowly my irritation increased. I sat up in the dark. But the mosquitoes and bedbugs took no notice of my irritation; they were just as bloodthirsty as ever, as if they were the only beings who had to live. How high was the price I had to pay so that no one might ever accuse me again of not knowing my own people! Perhaps if I had not given them shopping money, I would not have eaten at all that night. What did they really eat each day? I still didn't know.

I had just rested my head back on the sheaf of dried paddy stalks when I heard singing outside the hut. Who would be singing on this insect-ridden night? The voice seemed to hesitate. Before even one verse was finished, I heard the scrape of a door being opened quietly. I listened carefully. I could make out the shuffle of a long sarong on the floor. Obviously Ma Trunodongso. Then another scrape of an opening door. So husband and wife were up and going outside.

They wouldn't be going out to relieve themselves. It was the midnight village song that called them. This was interesting material for my story.

Before I knew it, I was groping my way through the darkness to the door. I must add to my knowledge about them. Not long after, there was another sound of a door scraping open, but this time it was my hand that did the opening. I was now outside the house, with the mosquitoes but without the bedbugs. A black starless sky. My eyes tried to locate any human movement. Nothing but blackness. Where had the husband and wife gone? I tried to remember from what direction the singing had come. My arms and legs groped in that direction. I reckoned I had reached the jackfruit trees. The singing had long since died away.

"Impossible." I heard a warning spoken emphatically.

There were several people under the jackfruit tree—at least three. The voice dropped to a soft whisper. Of course I was drawn in that direction. “The priyayi staying with you is a factory spy for sure!” I heard. “And you haven't the courage to kill him.” “No, in the name of Allah, he is not a spy.” “He's Castro Kassier's family!” “Even so, he is not like the factory people; he's not arrogant like them. From Surabaya, writes for a newspaper, he says. He's going to write for the papers about how we've been cheated all this time.” “Rubbish. As if you didn't know what they're like. Kill him and get it over with.” “No blood shall be spilled in my house,” came the voice of Trunodongso's wife. “Factory spies aren't like that.” “Very well, I will tell all this to the Kyai. Perhaps tomorrow I'll be back again.”

I rushed back to the house while they were still talking. My hands and feet began to grope around again. Now it felt as if the house was far away, another mile or so. They must not find me outside.

Suddenly my feet slipped into a drain. I must be on the wrong path. The foul-smelling drain mud became my second layer of clothes. I must be near the well. I had indeed come the wrong way. The humiliation of it! For the first time in my life I had to bathe at night. And for the first time in my life I had to wash my own clothes, in the darkness and the cold.

With my teeth rattling, I finally reached my sleeping-bench. I had no dry clothes. I lay down but now pulled the bedbug-ridden mat over me as a blanket.

Even so I did not feel any more tormented than before. Rather I felt thankful to God: Trunodongso and his wife's trust in me was a far greater blessing, overcoming the cold and torment.

In the morning, wearing only my underclothes, I washed my pants and shirt again and dried them. Then I wrote and wrote. It was clear they were involved in some kind of conspiracy. My guess was that they were banding together to fight against the factory. Perhaps I was mistaken. I must stay here perhaps another day.

Once again I strolled out the back to get to know my new field of action better.

That night I heard the singing again. I awoke and waited for the husband and wife to leave. The sky wasn't as dark as the night before. The stars lit up the earth. The two figures before me made their way quickly to the jackfruit thicket. This time I didn't dare go so close. From behind the bushes I could make out the silhouettes of several people. They didn't stay long, but left for who knows where.

I returned to the house. For a long time I tried to light the kerosene lamp. When I succeeded, I discovered that Trunodongso's two sons had also gone. So too had their machete and sickle, which usually leaned against the wall. Only their hoes were left, lying side by side near one of the roof supports.

That morning only the smaller children were at home. Little Piah quickly brought water into the kitchen, aided by her younger sisters. I befriended her while she cooked, and she became restless as a result. I fetched a hoe from its place and went out the back. In bare feet, chafed by the cold, dirty ground, I began to hoe where the boys had finished yesterday. After only five minutes I had to stop. I was panting. I was ashamed of myself. Those boys were far younger than I, and they could hoe the ground for four hours without stopping.

There were no witnesses to my condition. How embarrassed and ashamed I would be if someone saw me out of breath like this. I began to hoe the ground again, but this time more slowly. Then little Piah arrived. “Ndoró, don't work like that, you'll get dirty, you'll fall ill. There's coffee ready back at the house. Let me carry the hoe.”

I was lucky the offer of a drink arrived, otherwise I would have been obliged to continue that voluntary but murderous work. “Don't keep on hoeing, Ndoro,” forbade Piah politely. “If you blister your hand, you won't be able to write.”

I didn't even have a blister yet, but already I was unable to write; my hands shook uncontrollably. Still I had now, at least once in my life, hoed the ground. Clearly I would never be a farmer like them.

That afternoon I took my leave. I considered that I had enough notes. But the main thing was that I could not live any longer in these conditions. I now understood that these people were far stronger than I. They had the strength of iron; they were tempered by suffering. It was strange. Why should such a class of people, made so strong by their suffering, just keep on suffering?

Trunodongso stood bowing with hands folded before him and said how he regretted not being able to show me the kind of hospitality that was proper. His eyes were red from lack of sleep. “If Bapak is ever in Wonokromo, come to our house. Make sure you visit us,” I told him.

The whole family escorted me. I groped in my pocket. There was still one rupiah and fifteen cents, and I gave it to little Piah. “Don't forget to visit us at Wonokromo. Look for the house of Nyai Ontosoroh. Remember it, Pak: Nyai On-to-so-roh.”

His wife's and sons' eyes were also red.

Now only Trunodongso was left to escort me. He carried my bag respectfully, as if he were my servant. In the middle of the cane I stopped and said to him: “Pak Truno, by Allah, I am not a spy.” He glanced at me for a moment, then bowed his head. He must have guessed that I had heard the conversation on that dark night. “I respect Pak Truno and all those suffering the same fate. Through my writings I will try to lighten your burden. More than that is beyond me. Let's hope my help may produce some results. Troubles such as these can't always be overcome with machete and anger. It's all right, go home, get some sleep, you're exhausted. Here, let me carry my bags.”

He handed them over. I walked along without looking back. Yet somehow I could tell he was still standing there. All of a sudden he shouted out and ran up to me: “Forgive me, Ndoro; may I ask what is Ndoro's name?”