This Earth of Mankind

This Earth of Mankind

Pramoedya Ananta Toer

this Earth of Mankind People called me Minke.

My own name . . . for the time being I need not tell it. Not because I'm crazy for mystery. I've thought about it quite a lot: I don't yet really need to reveal who I am before the eyes of others.

In the beginning I wrote these short notes during a period of mourning: She had left me, who could tell if only for a while or forever? (At the time I didn't know how things would turn out.) That eternally harassing, tantalizing future. Mystery! We will all eventually arrive there—willing or unwilling, with all our soul and body. And too often it proves to be a great despot. And so, in the end, I arrived too. Whether the future is a kind or a cruel god is, of course, its own affair: Humanity too often claps with just one hand.

Thirteen years later I read and studied these short notes over again. I merged them together with dreams, imaginings. Naturally they became different from the original. Different? But that doesn't matter!

And here is how they turned out.

I was still very young, just the age of a corn plant, yet I had already experienced modern learning and science: They had bestowed upon me a blessing whose beauty was beyond description.

The director of my school once told my class: Your teachers have given you a very broad general knowledge, much broader than that received by students of the same level in many of the European countries.

Naturally this breast of mine swelled. I'd never been to Europe, so I did not know if the director was telling the truth or not. But because it pleased me, I decided to believe him. And, further, all my teachers had been born and educated in Europe. It didn't feel right to distrust my teachers. My parents had entrusted me to them. Among the educated European and Indo communities, they were considered to be the best teachers in all of the Netherlands Indies. So I was obliged to trust them.

This science and learning, which I had been taught at school and which I saw manifested in life all around me, meant that I was rather different from the general run of my countrymen. I don't know. And that's how it was that I, a Javanese, liked to make notes—because of my European training. One day the notes would be of use to me, as they are now.

One of the products of science at which I never stopped marveling was printing, especially zincography. Imagine, people can reproduce tens of thousands of copies of any photograph in just one day: pictures of landscapes, important people, new machines, American skyscrapers. Now I could see for myself everything from all over the world upon these printed sheets of paper. How deprived had the generation before me been—a generation that had been satisfied with the accumulation of its own footsteps in the lanes of its villages. I was truly grateful to all those people who had worked so tirelessly to give birth to these new wonders. Five years ago there were no printed pictures, only block and lithographic prints, which gave very poor representations of reality.

Reports from Europe and America brought word of the latest discoveries. Their awesomeness rivaled the magical powers of the gods and knights, my ancestors in the wayang shadow puppet theater. Trains—carriages without horses, without cattle, without buffalo—had been witnessed now for over ten years by my countrymen. And astonishment remains in their hearts even today. The distance from Betawi to Surabaya can be traveled in only three days! And they're predicting it will soon take only a day and a night! A day and a night! A long train of carriages as big as houses, full of goods, and people too, all pulled by water power alone. If I had ever been so lucky to meet Stephenson, I would have made him an offering of a wreath of flowers, all orchids. A network of railway tracks splintered my island, Java. The trains' billowing smoke colored the sky of my homeland with black lines, which faded into nothingness. It was as if the world no longer knew distance—it too had been abolished by the telegraph. Power was no longer the monopoly of the elephant and the rhinoceros. They had been replaced by small manmade things: nuts, screws, and bolts.

And over there in Europe, people had begun making even smaller machines, with even greater power, or at least with the same power as steam engines. Indeed, not with steam—with oil. There were also vague reports saying that a German had made a vehicle that worked by electricity. Oh Allah, and I couldn't really understand what electricity was.

The forces of nature were beginning to be changed by man and put to his service. People were even planning to fly like the shadow puppet character Gatotkaca, like Icarus. One of my teachers had said: Just a little while longer, just a little while, and people will no longer have to force their bones and squeeze out their sweat for so little result. Machines will replace all and every kind of work. People will have nothing to do except enjoy themselves. You are fortunate indeed, my students, he said, to be able to witness the beginning of the modern era here in the Indies.

Modern! How quickly that word had surged forward and multiplied itself like bacteria throughout the world. (At least, that is what people were saying.) So allow me also to use this word, though I still don't fully understand its meaning.

In short, in this modern era tens of thousands of copies of any photo could be reproduced each day. And the important thing was there was one of these that I looked at more often than any other: a photo of a beautiful maiden, rich, powerful, glorious, one who possessed everything, the beloved of the gods.

The rumors, whispered furtively among my school friends, were that even the richest bankers in the world had no chance of courting her. Handsome and manly nobility scrambled head over heels just to be noticed by her. Just to be noticed!

Whenever I had nothing to do, I would gaze at her face while supposing how it would be to court her. How would it be! And how high, too, was her station. And how far away she was, nearly twenty thousand kilometers from where I was: Surabaya. One month's sail by boat across two oceans, five straits, and through one canal. Even then there'd be no certainty of being able to meet her. I didn't dare speak my feelings to a single soul. They would have laughed at me and called me mad.

At the post offices, so rumor was also whispered, letters were occasionally received proposing marriage to this maiden who lived so far away and so high above. None ever reached her. Even if I had been crazy enough to try, it would have been just the same: The post officials would have only kept the letter for themselves.

And that beloved of the gods was the same age as me: eighteen. We were both born in the same year: 1880. Only one figure shaped like a stick, the others roundish, like miscast marbles. The day and the month were also the same: 31 August. If there were any differences, they were only the hour and sex. My parents never noted down the time of my birth. And I didn't know the hour of her birth. As for difference in sex, I was a male, she was a female. And that bewildering difference in time: When my island was blanketed in the darkness of night, her land was lit with sunshine. When her country was embraced by the blackness of night, my island shone brightly under the equatorial sun.

My teacher, Magda Peters, forbade us to believe in astrology. It was nonsense, she said. Thomas Aquinas, she said, once saw two people who were born in the same year, in the same month, on the same day and at the same hour, even in the same place. The joke played by astrology was that one became a great landowner and the other his slave.

Indeed I don't believe in astrology. How could anyone believe in it? It has never lit the way for progress in science and in learning. And it demands of us that we submit to its predictions. There is nothing else we can do except to throw it into the pig's slops bucket. Once I had my fortune told, just for fun. My horoscope was turned over and over. The fortune-teller opened her mouth. She had two gold teeth: If sir is patient, she said, he will surely meet the maiden. So I just prefer to trust my intellect. Even with the patience of all mankind, I would never meet her.

I put my trust in scientific understanding and in reason. With these, at least, there are certainties that can be grasped.

Without knocking on the real door of my rented room, Robert Suurhof—I won't use his real name here—entered. He found me crouched over the picture of that maiden, that beloved of the gods. He burst out laughing; my eyes grew moist, I was so embarrassed. His shout was even more impudent. “Oho, you philogynist, lady-killer, crocodile! What is the good of wishing for the moon?”

I could have thrown him out. But instead: “Oh … you never know!”

Let me tell you about Robert Suurhof: he was then my school friend from H.B.S. (the prestigious Dutch-language senior high school), H.B.S. Street, Surabaya. He was taller than me. In his body ran some Native blood. Who knows how many drops or clots. “Forget her,” he said. His voice had a coaxing, groaning note in it. Then: “There is a goddess here too in Surabaya—beautiful beyond comparison, easily equal to this picture. It's only a picture anyway.”

And he mocked me, the one who had defined beauty, by quoting my definition back at me: “Bone structure and body proportion must be in balance. And with fine, soft skin. She must have eyes that shine and lips that are clever at whispering.”

"You've added 'clever at whispering,'" I said. “Yes, then if she curses you, you won't hear.”

I offered him silence.

He gave me a look. “If you are a real man, a true philogynist, come with me there. I want to see what you do, whether you're indeed as manly as you say you are.” “I've still got a lot of work to do.” “You're afraid even to descend into the arena,” he accused.

That offended me. I knew that the H.B.S. brain inside the head of Robert Suurhof was only clever at insulting, belittling, disparaging, and working evil on people. He thought he knew my weakness: I had no European blood in my body. “It's on!” I answered. That was several weeks ago, at the beginning of the new school year.

And now all of Java was celebrating, perhaps also the whole of the Netherlands Indies. The tricolor fluttered joyously everywhere: That one-and-only maiden of the photograph, goddess of beauty, beloved of the gods, was now ascending the throne. She now was my queen. I was her subject. Exactly like Miss Magda Peters's story of Thomas Aquinas. She was Her Majesty Wilhel-mina. Date, month, and year of birth had given the astrologer the opportunity to raise her to become a queen and to cast me down to become her subject. And my queen would never know that I had walked this earth.

The date was September 7, 1898. Friday. This was in the Indies. Over there in Holland: September 6, 1898. Thursday.

All the school had gone crazy celebrating the coronation: competitions, performances, exhibitions of all those skills and abilities studied by Europeans—soccer, acrobatics, and softball. And none of this interested me. I didn't like sports.

The world around me was bustling. The cannons were booming. There were parades and hymns of praise, but my heart was empty, tormented. So I went, as usual, to my next-door neighbor and business partner, Jean Marais. Jean was a Frenchman and had only one leg. But his story comes later. He greeted me in French, forcing me to use his language. “Qa va, Jean, I have some work for you. One sitting-room suite.” I gave him a drawing of what the customer wanted. “Master Minke!” came a call from next door.

Sticking my head out the window I saw Mrs. Telinga waving to me. “Jean, I'm going. She may be serving cake.”

At home I found no cake. Only Robert Suurhof. “Ayoh!,” he said. “We'll go now.”

A new model buggy was waiting for us at the front gate. We climbed aboard; the horses began to move. The coachman was an old Javanese. “The rent for this must surely be more expensive than for any other,” I said in Dutch. “No fooling, Minke, this is no ordinary buggy, no cheap kretek. It's got springs—perhaps the first in Surabaya. Its springs probably cost more than the rest of the buggy put together.” “I can believe you, Rob. Come on, tell me, where are we going?”

He replied in his insolent, mysterious way: “A place to which every youth dreams of receiving an invitation, because of the angel that lives there, Minke. Listen, I've had the good luck to be invited by her older brother. Nobody has ever got an invitation, except this one.” He pointed to himself with his thumb. “Listen, coincidentally her brother is also called Robert.” “There are a lot of children called Robert now.” He took no notice of me and continued. “We met at a soccer match. And now I am invited to lunch to eat bull calves. That is what interests me most.” He glanced slyly at me. “Bull calves?” I did not understand. “Veal, to eat veal. That's my problem. Your problem”—he made a noise with his lips, his eyes sharply examining mine—“is that little sister of Robert's. I want to see how far this masculine charm of yours gets you, you philogynist.”

The steel frames of the buggy's wheels rattled on as it ground along the stone road of Kranggan Street to Blauran, in the direction of Wonokromo. “Come on, sing veni, vidi, vici—I came, I saw, I conquered.” He prompted me to join in between the rattle of the wheels. “Ha-ha, you've gone pale now. He no longer believes in his own virility. Ha!” “Why don't you take it all for yourself. Veal and this goddess?” “I? For me—only a goddess with Pure European blood!” So the goddess we were about to visit was an Indo girl, a Mixed-Blood, Indisch. Robert Suurhof—I remind you once again, I'm not using his real name—was also an Indo. When his mother, an Indo, was about to give birth, his father, also an Indo, rushed her to Perak Harbor, boarded the ship Van Heemskerck, which was tied up in port, so she had the child there, and he not only became a Dutch subject but a Dutch citizen as well. So he thought anyway. But I found out later that to be born on board a Dutch ship had no legal consequences whatever. Perhaps his behavior was similar to that of the Jews with Roman citizenship. He held himself to be different from his own brothers and sisters. He did not look upon himself as an Indo. If he had been born only one kilometer from that ship, maybe on the docks of Perak, perhaps on a Madurese sampan, and obtained Madurese citizenship, his behavior would have been a bit different. At least I began to understand why he carried on about not being interested in Indo girls. Under the illusion he was actually a Dutch citizen he strove to act as one for the sake of his grandchildren's future. He hoped that, in the future, he'd have a position and salary higher than that of an Indo, let alone a Native.

It was a very beautiful morning. The blue sky was clear, cloudless. Young life breethd nothing but pleasure. I was succeeding in all that I was doing. I was doing well in my studies. And I had an unworried heart and clear emotions. And she had ascended the throne? That was all over for me. All the decorations on the buildings and gateways were for her. All the official gatherings were also for her. Beloved of the gods! Heavenly goddess! And now Suurhof wanted to make fun of me in front of this other earthly girl whom he also wanted me to conquer.

I did not even notice all the village people walking to town. The yellow stone road went straight to Wonokromo. Houses, dry fields, wet paddy fields, trees enclosed in bamboo lattice along the road, clumps of forest washed with silver rays of sunshine, all of it flew past brightly. And far away in the distance, indistinctly visible, were the mountains, standing silent in their arrogance, like reclining ascetics turned to stone. “So we're off to a party in clothes like these?” “No, I just told you. I'm only going to eat, you to conquer.” “Where are we going?” “Direct to target.”

And still he would not say. “Don't make such a sour face! If you prove your virility,”— he smacked his lips—“I will respect you more than I do my own teacher. If you fail, look out, all your life you will be the butt of my jokes. Remember that well, Minke.”

"You're mocking me." “No. One day, Minke, you'll become a bupati. Perhaps you'll get a regency where the land is arid. I'll pray that you get a fertile one. If this goddess were to be beside you as your raden ayu, all the bupatis of Java would be in a high fever because of their envy.” “Who said I shall become a bupati?” “Me. And I shall continue my education in Holland. I shall become an engineer. Then we'll meet again. I shall visit you with my wife. Do you know what will be the first question I ask you?” “You're dreaming. I will never become a bupati.” “Listen, first I will ask: Hey, philogynist, lady-killer, croco-.dile, where is your harem?” “It seems you still look upon me as an uncivilized Javanese.” “What Javanese, even a bupati, is not but a crocodile on land?”

"I'm not going to be a bupati."

He laughed at me scornfully. And the buggy still didn't stop, and with time we moved farther and farther away from Surabaya.

I had been offended. Actually, I was too easily offended, and my feelings too easily hurt. Rob did not care. Indeed he had once said: The only way a wealthy and powerful Javanese could prove that he did not intend to have a harem was for him to marry a European, Pure or Eurasian. Then there could never be any co-wives or concubines.

The buggy entered Wonokromo district.

"Look to the left," Rob suggested.

I saw a Chinese-style house with a big yard, well kept and with a hedge. The front doors and windows were dosed. It was painted red all over. I didn't think it was at all attractive. And we all knew whose house it was and what it was—a pleasure-house, a brothel, owned by Babah Ah Tjong.

But the buggy kept on going. “Keep looking to the left.”

For about one hundred and fifty meters past the pleasure-house the land was empty. Then there stood a two-storied timber house, also with extensive grounds. Standing behind the wooden fence was a big sign with the words Boerderij Buitenzorg—Buitzorg Agricultural Company.

Everyone who lives in Surabaya and Wonokromo, I thought, knew that was the house of the wealthy Mr. Mellema—Herman Mellema. Everyone thought of that house as Mellema's private palace, even if it was only made of teak. Its grey, wooden-shingle roof was already visible from quite a distance away. Its doors and windows stood wide open—not like Ah Tjong's pleasure-house. There was no veranda. In its place there was a broad, expansive awning overhanging the wooden stairs, which were also wide, wider than the front door.

But that's all that anyone knew, his name: Mr. Mellema. People would see him once or twice only, or once and then never again. But everyone talked about his concubine: Nyai Ontosoroh. People admired her very much. She was handsome, in her thirties, and she managed the whole of this great agricultural firm. People called her Ontosoroh, a Javanese pronunciation of Buitenzorg.

The family and its business were guarded by a Madurese fighter, Darsam, and his men. No one dared to call on that timber palace.

I sat up, startled.

The buggy suddenly turned, passed through the gate, passed the Boerderij Buitenzorg sign, and headed directly to the house's front steps. I shuddered. Darsam, whom I had never seen, appeared in my mind's eye. Just a mustache, nothing but a mustache, a fist, and a giant sickle. I had never heard of anyone receiving an invitation from this eerie and sinister palace. “Here?”

Robert just spat.

An Indo-Eurasian youth opened the glass door and came down the steps to greet Suurhof. He appeared to be about my age. He looked European, except he had brown skin. He was tall, well built, sturdy. “Hi, Rob!” “Oho, Rob!” greeted Suurhof. “I've brought my friend. It's okay, isn't it? You don't mind, do you?”

He didn't greet me. I was just a Native. He looked at me piercingly. I started to become anxious. I knew we were beginning a new round in a game. If he refused to receive me, Suurhof would laugh and wait for me to crawl back to the main road, driven away by Darsam. He hadn't yet refused, hadn't yet expelled me. With just one movement of his lips, I could be driven out—God! Where must I hide my face? But no, suddenly he smiled and held out his hand. “Robert Mellema,” he introduced himself.

"Minke," I responded.

He still held my hand, waiting for me to give my family name. He raised his eyebrows. I understood: He thought I was an Indo who was not, or not yet, legally acknowledged by my father. Without a family name, an Indo is considered beneath contempt, like a Native. And I am indeed a Native. But no, he didn't demand my family name. “Pleased to meet you. Come on in.”

We went up the steps. His sharp glance did nothing to dispel my suspicions.

But suddenly a new mood replaced suspicion. In front of us stood a girl, white-skinned, refined, European face, hair and eyes of a Native. And those eyes, those shining eyes! (“Like a pair of morning stars,” I called them in my notes.) If this was the girl Suurhof meant, he was right: Not only could she rival the queen, she triumphed over her. And she was alive, flesh and blood, not just a picture. “Annelies Mellema.” She held out her hand to me, then to Suurhof.

The voice that came from her lips left an impression that I will remember for the rest of my life.

The four of us sat on a rattan settee. Robert Suurhof and Robert Mellema were soon engrossed in talk about soccer. I felt too awkward to join in. I had never liked soccer. My eyes began to poke around the big drawing room: the furniture; the ceiling; the dangling crystal candle chandelier; the hanging gas lights with their copper piping (I couldn't work out where the main gas tank was); a picture of Queen Emma, who had just abdicated, hanging on the wall in a heavy wooden frame. Being a part-time trader in furniture, just one look at these objects told me that they were nothing but the most expensive, made by master craftsmen. The carpet under the settee was decorated with a motif I'd never come across before. And for the umpteenth time my gaze ended resting on Annelies's face. “Why are you so quiet?” Anrielles asked. She addressed me in familiar Dutch.

Once again I gazed at her face. I hardly dared look into her eyes. Surely she would be repulsed by me. I had no family name and I was a Native too. All I could do was smile—and once again I forced myself to look away toward the furniture.

"Everything is so beautiful here," I said. “Very much,” and once again I looked at her.

Even in the middle of all this sumptuousness she appeared grand, a part of it but outshining all these rich and beautiful things.

"Why do you hide your family name?" she asked. “I haven't hidden it,” I answered, and I began to become anxious again. “Do I really need tell?” I glanced over at Robert Suurhof. Before I could look away, he let fly his own glance. “Of course you do,” Annelies said. “Otherwise people will think you're not acknowledged by your father.” “I don't have a family name. Truly I have none,” I answered. “Oh!” she exclaimed slowly. “Forgive me.” She was silent for a moment. “That's quite all right,” she then said. “I'm not an Indo,” I added in a defensive tone. “Oh!” she exclaimed once again. “No?”

It felt as if a drum were pounding in my heart. So she knew: I was a Native. I could be thrown out at any moment. I could feel the glances of Robert Suurhof examining those parts of my body that were not covered up. Yes, like a vulture examining a candidate carcass. When I looked up I saw Robert Mellema stabbing at Annelies with his eyes. At that moment he turned to me, his lips becoming a thin, straight line. Oh Lord, what will happen to me? Must I be thrown out like a dog from this beautiful house, accompanied by the cascading laughter of Robert Suurhof? His eyes were knifing at my neck. The Mellema boy hadn't even blinked.

For a moment my vision blurred. All I could see was Anne-lies's white gown, without a face, without limbs.

And then I began to realize: It had been Suurhofs intention all along to humiliate me here in someone else's house. And now all I could do was to wait for the expulsion.

A moment more and Darsam, the fighter, would be called and ordered to throw me out onto the street.

All of a sudden I heard the shrill laughter of Annelies and this crazed heart of mine felt as if it no longer beat. Slowly I lifted my eyes toward her. Her teeth gleamed, visible, more beautifully white than any I had ever seen. Oh, philogynist! Even in a situation like this you can still admire and praise beauty. “It's all right to be a Native,” she said, still laughing.

Now Robert Mellema's look was directed at his little sister. Annelies, challenging him, looked him straight in the face. Her brother looked away.

What sort of drama was all this? Robert Suurhof did not say anything. Neither did Robert Mellema. Were the two youths in league to force me to apologize? Only because I had no family name and was a Native as well. Why should I? I would not. “Being Native is good too,” Annelies said earnestly. “My mother is a Native. Native Javanese. You are my guest, Minke.” Her voice had the tone of an order.

Only then could I breathe freely again. “Thank you.” “It seems that you don't like soccer. I don't either. Let's sit somewhere else.” She stood up and showed me the way, putting out her hand in that sweet, spoiled way of hers. She wanted me to take her by the hand.

I stood up, and excused myself, nodding to her brother and Suurhof. Their eyes followed us. Annelies glanced back with an apologetic smile to the guest she left behind.

As we crossed that broad drawing room, my knees almost gave way. I could feel the glances of the two youths stabbing into my back. We went into the back parlor, which was even more sumptuously furnished.

Here, too, all the walls were made from light brown varnished teak. In the corner there was a dining suite, consisting of one table and six chairs. Close by there were stairs leading up.

Small tables stood on guard, night and day, in each of the other three corners. A vase of European porcelain stood upon each one.

Seeing my eyes fixed upon the display cabinet, she took me over to it. The cabinet stood against the wall opposite the dining table. In it were displayed art objects—I'd never seen such things before.

"I am not carrying the keys with me," said Annelies. "That's the one I like best." She pointed to a small bronze statue. "Mama says it's an Egyptian empress." She thought for a moment. "If I'm not mistaken her name is Nefertiti."

Whatever the name of the figurine, I was amazed that a Native, and a concubine at that, knew the name of an Egyptian empress.

There was also a Balinese carving of the East Javanese king Erlangga, riding on the back of the mythical garuda bird. Unlike the others, it was not made from sawoh wood, but from some other kind that I had never come across before.

On the first shelf there was a row of little ceramic masks, picturing all sorts of animal faces. “These are the masks from the story of Sie You Chie,” she explained. “Have you heard the story?”

"Not yet."

"One day I'll tell it to you. Would you like that?"

The question sounded so inviting it drowned out all the sumptuousness, and the differences that existed between us. “Very much so.” “Then you'd definitely like to come here again.” “An honor.”

There were no great clamshells sitting at the feet of the small tables such as I had seen in the bupati buildings. There was a phonograph on a low table with a small wheel on each of its four legs. The lower section of the phonograph table was used as a place to store music. The table itself was ornately carved. It must have been made to order. “Why are you silent?” she asked again. “You're still at school?” “A school friend of Robert Suurhof.”

"It looks like my brother is really proud to have him as a friend, an H.B.S. student. Now I too have a friend who is an H.B.S. student. You!" Suddenly she turned round toward the back door and called: "Mama! Over here! Mama, we have a guest."

A Native woman entered, wearing a traditional Javanese wrap skirt and a white blouse embellished with expensive lace, perhaps the famous Dutch lace made in Naarden, which we had been told about in E.L.S. She was wearing black velvet slippers embroidered with silver thread. Her neat attire, her clear face, her motherly smile, and her very simple adornments made a deep impression on me. She looked lovely and young; her skin was smooth and light-colored like the langsat fruit. So this was what she looked like, this Nyai Ontosoroh who was talked about by so many people, whose name was on the lips of everyone in Wonok-romo and Surabaya, the nyai in control of the Boerderij Buiten-zorg. “Yes, Annelies, who is your guest?” I was even more startled, for she spoke in Dutch. “Oh yes? Is that so?” Nyai asked me. Her Dutch was good, with correct school pronunciation.

I hesitated. Should I offer my hand as to a European woman, or should I treat her as a Native woman and ignore her? But it was she who first offered her hand. I was dumbfounded and clumsily accepted her grip. This was not Native custom but European. If that's how they do things here, then I, of course, will offer mine first. “Annelies's guests are my guests too,” she said. Her Dutch was so fluent. “How shall I call you? Sir? Sanyo? But you're not Indo.” “Not Indo …” What should I call her, Nyai or Madam? “Are you really an H.B.S. student?” she asked, smiling affably. “Yes, really.” “People call me Nyai Ontosoroh. They can't pronounce Buitenzorg. Sinyo appears to hesitate to call me that. Everyone does. Don't be reluctant.”

I didn't answer. And it seemed she forgave my awkwardness. “If Sinyo is an H.B.S. student, Sinyo is no doubt the son of a bupati. Bupati of what regency, Nyo?” “No, Ny, Ny ”

"Sinyo is so reluctant to call me by my name. Well, then, call me Mama, like Annelies—that is if you don't feel insulted, Sinyo.” “Yes, Minke,” the daughter added. “Mama's right. Call her Mama.” “I'm not the son of any bupati, Mama,” and with the use of the new name, my awkwardness, the differences between her and me, even her strangeness, abruptly disappeared. “Then you must be the son of a path,” Nyai Ontosoroh continued. “Not the son of a path either, Mama.” “Very well. But I am so pleased that Annelies has a friend to visit her. Ann, look after him properly, this guest of yours.” “Of course, Mama,” she answered cheerfully, now that she had her mother's blessing.

Nyai Ontosoroh left us. I was amazed not only that this Native woman could speak Dutch so well, but also that she was so relaxed with a male guest. Where was she educated? And why was she only a nyai, a concubine? And who educated her to be so free, just like a European woman? What had been a sinister, eerie place was changing into a castle of puzzles. “I'm glad I have a guest.” Annelies became even more cheerful, knowing her mother had no objections. “No one has ever visited me. People are afraid to come here. Even my old school friends.” “Where did you go to school?” “E.L.S. I didn't finish. I didn't even get to fourth class.”

"Why didn't you go on?"

Annelies bit her finger and looked at me. “There was an accident,” she answered, and did not go on. Suddenly she asked: “You're Moslem?”

"Why?" “So that you don't eat pork.”

I nodded.

A maid served chocolate milk and cakes. And the servant didn't come cringing in as she would have before Native masters. She walked in and stood gaping at me in amazement. That would never be allowed by a Native master: A servant must bow down, bow and scrape continuously. How beautiful life is when one doesn't have to cringe before others. “My guest is Moslem,” said Annelies in Javanese to her servant. “Tell them out back not to let pork touch the other food.”

Then she quickly turned to me and asked, "Why are you so silent?" “Don't you know?” I asked in return. “Because I never dreamed I'd ever come face to face with such a beautiful goddess as this.” She was silent and stared at me with her day-star eyes. I regretted having said it. Hesitantly and slowly she asked, “Who do you mean by this goddess?” “You,” I whispered, and the look on her face changed. She tilted her head. Her eyes opened wide. “Me? You're saying I'm beautiful?”

I became more daring, insisting, “Without rival.” “Mama!” shouted Annelies and turned around to the back door. Disaster! I exclaimed no less loudly than her—but in my heart, of course. The girl went to the back door. She was going to take the matter to Nyai. Crazy child! Such a contrast with her beauty. And she's going to complain: Minke's being impertinent. Indeed this house is a place of misfortune. No, no, not misfortune. Whatever happens now, it will all be of my own doing.

Nyai appeared at the door and walked toward me.

My heart started to pound again. Perhaps I had done wrong. Punish this impudent one, but don't shame me in front of Robert Suurhof. “What's the matter now, Ann? Has she started an argument, Nyo?" “No, we weren't arguing,” the girl flashed, then she com-, planned in that sweet, spoiled manner of hers, “Mama”—her hand pointed to me—“imagine, Mama, how could Minke say I was beautiful?”

Nyai stared at me. Her head was tilted a little. She looked at her daughter. In a whisper, with her two hands placed on Anne-lies's shoulders, she said: “You know I've often said that you're beautiful? And extraordinarily beautiful? There's no doubt you're beautiful, Ann. Sinyo is not wrong.” “Oh, Mama!” Annelies's face reddened.

Now Nyai sat down on the chair beside me. She said quickly: “I'm glad you've come, Nyo. She's never mixed properly like other Indo children. She hasn't become an Indo, Nyo.” “I'm not an Indo,” the girl contradicted. “I don't want to be an Indo. I only want to be like Mama.”

I was even more amazed. What was going on in this family? “Nyo, you heard it for yourself: She'd rather be a Native.

Why is Sinyo silent? Perhaps you're offended I'm only calling you Nyo or Sinyo? Without any title?" “No, Mama, no,” I answered hastily. “You look confused.”

Who wouldn't have been confused? Nyai Ontosoroh was behaving as if I were someone who had known her for a long time, but who had forgotten her. It was as if she had given birth to me herself and was closer to me than Mother, even though she looked younger than Mother.

I waited expectantly for Nyai's anger to explode because of my crazy compliments. But she was not angry. Exactly like Mother, who also had never been angry with me. My soul's ear heard a warning too: Beware, don't equate her with Mother. She is just a nyai, living in sin, giving birth to illegitimate children, low in moral character, selling honor to live easily and in luxury. And I couldn't say she was ignorant. Her Dutch was fluent, and polite. Her attitude toward her daughter was refined and wise and open, not like that of Native mothers. She behaved just like an educated European woman. “The trouble is, Ann,” Nyai added, “you don't mix, you only want to be close to Mama.” But suddenly, her words were then directed at me. “Nyo, do you usually compliment girls in this way?”

The question flashed at me like lightning. Seeing this as a good omen, I was encouraged to parry like lightning, but carefully.

"If a girl is indeed beautiful, there isn't anything bad in saying so, is there?" “A European or a Native girl?” “How is it possible to compliment Native girls? It's impossible even to get close, Mama. European girls, of course.” “Does Sinyo dare do such a thing?” “We're taught to state our feelings honestly.” “So you are game enough to compliment European girls to their faces?” “Yes, Mama, my teachers teach European civilization.” “How do they respond to your compliments? Abuse?” “No, Mama. There is nobody who doesn't like being complimented, my teacher says. If someone gets insulted because of a compliment, they say, it's a sign of a dishonest heart.” “So how do these European girls answer?”

"Their answer, Mama, is thank you." “Like in the books?”

She reads European books, this nyai.

"Ann," she continued, "answer thank you."

Just like a Native girl, Annelies blushed with embarrassment. She didn't say anything. “And how about Indo girls?” asked Nyai. “If they've received a good European education, they behave just the same, Mama.”

"If they haven't?" “If not, and especially if they're in a bad mood, they abuse you.” “Sinyo is often abused?”

I knew then that I was blushing. She smiled and turned to her daughter: “You heard it yourself, Ann. Come on, say thank you. Wait a minute. Nyo, say it again, this compliment of yours, so I can hear it too.”

Now I became really embarrassed. What sort of person was I dealing with? She was so clever at capturing and seizing my mind in her hands. “I'm not allowed to hear?” she asked, looking at my face.. “All right.”

Again she left us. Annelies and I followed her with our eyes until she disappeared behind the door. And we gazed at each other like two children, equally startled. I burst into uncontrollable laughter. She bit her lip and looked away.

What sort of family was this? Robert Mellema with his frightening, stabbing glances. Annelies Mellema, so childlike. Nyai On-tosoroh, so clever at Capturing and seizing control of people's minds that even I lost my judgment and forgot that she was only a concubine. And what about Mr. Mellema, owner of all this abundant wealth?

Annelies frowned. “You don't need to know. What for? Even I have no desire to know. Even Mama doesn't want to know.”

"Why?" I asked. “Do you like to listen to music?” “Not now.”

And so the conversation dragged on until lunch was served. Robert Mellema, Robert Suurhof, Annelies, and I sat surrounding the table. A young servant, female, stood near the door awaiting orders. Suurhof sat beside his friend and every now and then stole a glance at me and Annelies. Mama sat at the head of the table.

There was much more food than we could have eaten. The main dish was veal, a food I tasted then for the first time in my life.

Annelies sat beside me and served me, as if I were some European master or a very respected Indo.

Nyai ate calmly, like a genuine European woman who had graduated from an English boarding school.

I earnestly examined the position of the spoons and forks, the use of the soup ladle and the knives, carving forks, and also the elaborate dinner service. It was all perfect. The white steel knife seemed to have been sharpened not on stone but on a steel grinding wheel, so there were no scratches. From everything I had read, even the position of the napkins and the finger bowls and the position of the glasses in their silver cases could not be faulted.

Robert Suurhof ate greedily as if he had not seen food for the last three days. I was hesitant even though hungry. Annelies hardly ate anything, only because of the attention she paid to serving me and me alone.

When Nyai stopped eating, naturally I did too, and so did Annelies. Robert Suurhof continued eating and seemed to ignore Nyai completely. And I realized I had not heard the woman speak to her son even once. “Minke,” Nyai said, “is it true people can now make ice? Ice that is really cold, as the books say?” “It's true, Mama, at least according to the newspapers.”

Suurhof swallowed, while glaring at me. “I want to know if the newspaper reports are true.” “It seems everything will be able to be made by man, madam,” I answered, though in my heart I was more amazed that somebody could doubt a newspaper report. “Everything? Impossible,” she replied.

The conversation stopped abruptly. Robert Mellema invited his friend to go outside. They stood and left without taking leave of the Native woman, Nyai Ontosoroh.

"Forgive my friend, Mama."

She smiled, nodded to me, stood up, then left too. The servant cleared the table. “Mama must continue her work in the office,” Annelies explained. “After lunch like this, I have work to do, but out at the back.” “What do you do?”

"Come on, join me." “What about my friend?” “No need for you to worry yourself. My brother will invite him to go off hunting. He always goes hunting birds or squirrels with his air gun after lunch.”

"Why must it be after lunch?" “The birds and squirrels are also full and sleepy, so they're not so quick. Come on, come along.”

I walked behind her like a child following after his mother. And if she hadn't been beautiful, how would that otherwise have been possible? Oh, philogynist!

Passing through the back door, we entered an area containing steel-hooped wooden barrels. On top of the largest one there was a churning machine. The smell of cow's milk filled the room. People worked without making any sound, as if they were dumb. Now and then they wiped their bodies with a piece of cloth. Each wore a white headband. All wore white shirts with the sleeves rolled up to about ten centimeters above their elbows. Not all of them were men. Some wore women; you could tell from the batik kains below their white shirts. Women working in a business. Wearing calico shirts too! Village women wearing coats! And not in their own kitchens! Were they wearing breast-cloths: too under their calico shirts?

One by one I looked them over. They only paid attention to me for a moment.

Annelies approached them each in turn, and they greeted her, just without speaking, just with a sign. That was the first time I knew this beautiful childlike girl was also a supervisor who must be paid heed to by her workers, male and female.

I was dumbfounded to see women leaving their kitchens in their homes, wearing work clothes, seeking a living in someone else's business, mixing with men! Was this also a sign of the modern era in the Indies? “You're amazed to see women working?”

I nodded. “They wear the same uniforms here as workers in Holland, but we can only give them calico.”

She pulled me by the hand and took me out into an open compound, the area for drying produce. Several people were working, turning over soya beans, shucked com, peas, and peanuts. As soon as we arrived, they all stopped work and greeted us by nodding and lifting up their hands. They all wore bamboo farmers' hats.

Annelies clapped her hands and held up two fingers to somebody. A moment later a child worker came up with two bamboo hats. Annelies put one on my head, and wore one herself, and we walked several hundred meters along a path laid with river gravel. “There are big celebrations on at the moment,” I said. “Why aren't they given a holiday?” “They can holiday if they like. Mama and I never holiday. They're day laborers.”

Along the path, up in front of us, quite far away, I could see the two Roberts, each with a rifle slung over his shoulder. “What work is it you do?” I asked.

"Everything except the office work. Mama does that herself."

So Nyai Ontosoroh does office work. What sort of office work can she do? “Administration?” I asked, groping around. “Everything. The books, trading, correspondence, banking ...”

I stopped in my steps. Annelies also. I stared at her in disbelief. She pulled at my hand and we walked on again toward a row of cattle pens. I already could smell the stench of their dung. It was only because a beautiful girl was taking me that I did not run to avoid it; indeed, I even went into the pens themselves. Only once in all my life. Truly.

The row of pens was very long. In each one people were busy looking after the feed and drink for the dairy cows. The smell of cow dung and of rotten grass made the atmosphere fetid, and I had to resist the urge to vomit.

Lifting up the edge of her satin dress, Annelies went up to several cows and patted them on the forehead, talked to them in a whisper, even laughed. I observed her from a distance. She hiad such easy manners entering the pens and talking with the cows, and in a satin gown like that!

Here too there were women workers. They were sweeping, rinsing down the pen floors, and scrubbing them with very long-handled brushes. They all seemed surprised to see me there.

Annelies walked along the shelves, and I walked along opposite her. She stopped. I saw her talk with a worker, and they both glanced at me, as if sharing a secret.

Another worker, stooped over in deference, walked out in front of me carrying two empty zinc buckets. Her face was pretty. Like the others she wore a breast-cloth and kain. She was barefooted, wet, dirty, with her toes trumpeting outward. Her breasts were firm and full and by themselves attracted attention. She bowed, glanced up at me from under her forehead, and smiled invitingly. “Greetings, Sinyo!” She addressed me freely, softly and enticingly.

I'd never met a Native girl so free as that, greeting a man she had never met before. She stopped in front of me and asked in Malay:

Suddenly Annelies was behind me. “How many buckets a day are you getting from your cows, Sis Minem?” Now she spoke Javanese. “The usual, Non,” Minem replied in High Javanese.

Annelies appeared impatient. “I can still collect more milk than any of them,” she said when we went outside. “I don't think you like cows. Let's go to the stables, if you like; or to the fields.”

I had never been to a field. There is nothing interesting there. Yet I still followed her.

"Or do you like riding?" “Ride a horse?” I cried. “You ride horses?”

This childlike girl who had never graduated from primary school suddenly stood revealed as a person of extraordinary character: Not only was she such an efficient manager, but she could ride horses and could get more milk from her cows than any of the other workers. “Of course. How else could you keep check on fields as large as these?”

We came to a field that had just been harvested. Peanuts. The harvest could be seen heaped on the ground everywhere. There were also piles of peanut stems and plants being carted off for cattle fodder. “The land here is very good; it can produce three metric tons dry weight of peanuts per hectare. If we hadn't proved it ourselves maybe people would never have believed it,” Annelies said. “Good land. First-class quality. Profitable. Even the leaves and stems are good for fertilizer and for cattle fodder.”

It seemed that she could read my thoughts: Who cares if it's two or five tons a hectare? I heard her voice: “You're not interested. Let's race the horses. Agree?”

Before I could answer, she pulled my hand. I was dragged along as she ran. I could hear her breathing and then panting heavily. She took me into a big, broad shed that contained coaches, carriages, wagons, and buggies. Saddles, with all sorts of stirrups, hung along the walls. Most of the building was empty.

Seeing my amazement at finding a carriage stable as big as a bupati's office, she laughed, then pointed to a carriage adorned with shining brass and with carbide lights. “Have you ever seen such a beautiful buggy?” “Never, never,” I answered as I approached the vehicle.

Annelies pulled me along again. We entered into a long, wide stable. There were only three horses inside. Now it was the stench of horses permeating the air and assaulting my sense of smell. She approached a gray-colored horse, embraced the animal's neck, and whispered something in its ear, calling it Bawuk.

Bawuk weighed lightly as if laughing in response. Then An-nelies stroked the horse's forehead and it grinned, showing its mighty teeth.

Annelies laughed gaily.

Then, in a serious voice, after whispering while embracing Bawuk's neck, she glanced at me, "We have a guest. That's him. His name is Minke. An alias: It is not a Javanese name, nor Islamic, not even Christian, I imagine. An alias. Do you believe his name is Minke?"

Once again the horse neighed in response. “Nah!” Annelies said, then to me: “She said that of course your name is an alias.”

They were plotting. I was their target. And the other two horses joined in neighing, looking at me accusingly with their big, unblinking eyes. “Let's go outside,” I said, but she went over to the other two horses and stroked each of their backs. Only then did she say to me: “Come on.”

"You smell of horses," I said.

She only laughed.

"Apparently it doesn't worry you." “It's not really important,” she answered grumpily. “Bawuk has been treated that way ever since she was small. Mama would be angry if I didn't love her. You must be grateful to everything that gives you life, says Mama, even if it's only a horse.”

I didn't annoy her again about the stench.

"Why don't you believe my name is Minke?"

Her eyes shone with disbelief, accusing.

It was, of course, not my idea that my name be, or that people should call me, Minke. I too had been amazed by how it had happened. It is a bit of an involved story. It started when I was still at E.L.S. and did not know a word of Dutch. Mr, Ben Roose-boom, my very first teacher, was always cross with me. I could never answer his questions. I always ended up crying. Yet every day a servant escorted me to that hated school.

I was stuck in first class for two years. Mr. Rooseboom remained cross with me and I remained scared of him. But by the time the new school year arrived, my Dutch was somewhat better. My friends had all gone up to second class. I stayed in first class. I was seated between two Dutch girls, who were always making trouble and annoying me. On one occasion, one of the girls who sat beside me, Vera, pinched my thigh as hard a$ she could, as a way of getting acquainted. I screamed in pain.

Mr. Rooseboom's eyes popped out frighteningly, and he yelled:

"Quiet, you monk ... Minfee!"

From that day, everyone in the class called me Minke, the one and only Native. My teachers followed suit. Then 'my friends from all the other classes. Also from outside school.

I once asked my elder brother, what did Minke mean? He didn't know. He even ordered me to ask Mr. Rooseboom himself. I didn't dare. My grandfather didn't know Dutch. He couldn't even read or write Latin script. He only knew Javanese, written and spoken. His view was that Minke should be my permanent name: It was a sign of respect from a good and wise teacher. So my real name was almost lost.

I always believed that the name meant something unpleasant. The day my teacher spoke that word Minke, his eyes popped out like a cow's eyes. His eyebrows Jijtfiped off his broad face. And the ruler in his hand fell to the desk. Goodness and wisdom? Far from it.

I could not find the word in the Dutch dictionary.

Then I entered the H.B.S., Surabaya. My teachers there did not know what it meant either. Unlike us Javanese, they would never make a guess based just on feelings. One even quoted to me from some Englishman: What's in a name? (It was a long time before I could remember the Englishman's name.)

Then we began English lessons. Six months passed and I came across a word similar in pronunciation and spelling to my name. I began to think back over it: eyes popping out and eyebrows ready to disengage from his broad face—for sure he was insulting me. And I remember how Mr. Rooseboom hesitated in saying the name. Fearfully I dared to guess: Perhaps he intended to insult me by calling me monkey.

I've never told anyone what I thought, not even Annelies. “Minke is a good name,” said Annelies. Then: “Let's visit the villages. There are four villages on our land. All the family heads work for us.”

All along the road the villagers acknowledged us with respect. They called the girl Non or Noni. “How many hectares do you have?” I asked. “One hundred and eighty.”

One hundred and eighty! I couldn't even imagine how vast that was. And she continued: “That's the paddy and fields. It doesn't include the forests.”

Forests! She owns forests. Crazy. She owns forests! What for? “For the firewood,” she added. “Perhaps you own swamps too?” “Yes. There are two small swamps.” “What about mountains?” I asked. “Mountains?”

"You're teasing me." She pinched me. “Volcanoes, no doubt, so you can catch their flames if they erupt, just like the gods.” “Iiiih!” She pinched again. “What's all that growing over there?” I asked, pointing to a marshy area a few meters away. “Only reeds. Haven't you ever seen that kind of reed?” “Let's go over there,” I said. “No,” she answered firmly and hunched her shoulders. She shuddered visibly.

"You're scared of that place."

She took my hand and hers felt cold. All of a sudden her eyes became nervous and she tried to tear them away as quickly as possible from the marshes. Her lips were pale. I glanced behind. She pulled my hand and whispered nervously: “Don't pay any attention. Come on, walk a little faster.”

We entered another village, then left it and entered yet another. It was the same everywhere: little, naked children playing everywhere, most with snot hanging from their noses. There were also a few who licked it off. In the shady places, women in late pregnancy sat sewing while carrying their youngest children in kain slings. Two or three women sat in a row looking for head lice.

Several women stopped Annelies and wanted to talk with, her, asking for help. And this extraordinary girl, like a mother, affably attended to them all.

She loved her horses because they gave life to her and so it was also with her people. She appeared so grand among the villagers, her people. More grand perhaps than the maiden I had so often dreamed of and who now, in great pomp, had taken her place on the throne to govern the Indies, Surinam, the Antilles, and the Netherlands itself. Even Annelies's skin was finer and more radiant. And Annelies could be approached.

As soon as she finished attending to her people's demands, we continued our walk. Vast nature and that clear, cloudless sky enveloped us. It was scorching hot. It was at that moment I whispered to her these words: “Have you seen a picture of the queen?” “Naturally. She's beautiful!” “Yes. You're not wrong.”

"Why do you ask?" “You're more beautiful than she.”

She stopped walking just to look at me. “Thank you, Minke,” she answered, embarrassed.

The road became hotter and more still. I jumped over a drain just to see if she would jump or not. She picked up her long dress as high as she could and jumped. I caught her hand, pulled her close, and kissed her upon the cheek. She looked startled, her eyes wide open, examining me.

And I kissed her once again. This time I felt how her skin was smooth as velvet. “The most beautiful girl I have ever met,” I whispered with all my heart's honesty.

She didn't answer, and she didn't say thank you either. She signaled we should go home. She walked along silently all the way. Then a premonition came upon me: You are going to get nothing but trouble from these actions of yours, Minke. If she complains to Darsam, you'll be beaten up before you can even bark.

She walked with her head bowed. I realized only then that her sandals had been left on the other side of the drain. And soon I felt ashamed for pretending not to have noticed. “Your sandals have been left behind, Ann.”

She didn't care. Didn't answer. Didn't look back. She increased her pace.

Quickly I moved up beside her.

"Are you angry, Ann? Angry at me?"

She continued to keep her silence.

The timber palace was visible far away high above the roofs of the other buildings. I could see Nyai watching us from an upstairs window. Annelies, who was walking with her head down, did not know the eyes upstairs followed us until the roofs of the factory buildings blocked Nyai's view.

We entered the house and sat once again on the front-parlor settee. Annelies sat quietly, leaving frozen all my questions. All of a sudden she leaped up and went into another room. As I sat there, I became more and more anxious. She is going to complain to Nyai for sure. I'll get my just desserts now. But no, I will not run.

It wasn't long after that she came out again, carrying a big paper bundle. She placed the object upon the table and said coldly: “It's late. Rest. That door”—she pointed to the back, at a door—“is your room. In this bundle there are sandals, a towel, and pajamas. You can bathe there. I still have work to do.”

Before going, she went to the door she had just pointed out, opened it, and invited me to enter.

Gently she pushed me inside and closed the door from the outside, leaving me alone behind it.

These small and large tensions had made me very tired. My fears about the consequences of my impertinence continued to worry me, though I didn't think I had really done anything wrong. What was it that I had done wrong? Any young man would have behaved the same in the presence of such an extraordinarily beautiful maiden. Didn't my biology teacher say. . . ? Ah, to the devil with biology!

Entering the bathroom was another experience again, another kind of luxury. The walls were lined with mirrors at least three millimeters thick. The floor was made of cream porcelain tiles. I had never seen such a big, clean, and beautiful bathroom. Even a bupati's home would not be equipped with such a bathroom. The bluish water in the porcelain-lined bathtub called out to me to submerge myself in it. And wherever your eyes were directed, it was always yourself that you saw: front, behind, sides, everything.

The bluish clear cool water washed away my anxieties and fears.

And if ever I am rich, I thought, I will build luxury like this. Nothing less than this.

Mama offered me a chair in the parlor. She sat down beside me and tried to start up a discussion about business and trade. It was soon obvious that I knew nothing about these things. She was acquainted with many European terms that I didn't know. Sometimes she would explain them to me just like a teacher. And how clearly this Nyai could explain things! “Sinyo is interested in business and trade,” she said afterwards, as if I had understood everything. “That's very unusual for a Javanese, especially the son of an important official. Or perhaps Sinyo has plans to become a trader or a businessman?” “I am already trying my hand at business, Mama.” “Sinyo? The son of a bupati? What sort of business?” “Perhaps also because I'm not the son of a bupati,” I replied. “What business are you in?” “Top-class furniture, Mama.” I began my propaganda. “The latest styles and models from Europe. I go to meet the ships bringing newcomers from Europe. I also visit the houses of the parents of my school friends.” “And Sinyo's progress at school? You're not left behind?” “Never, Mama.” “Interesting. For me, those who really endeavor are always interesting. Does Sinyo own his own furniture workshop? How many tradesmen?” “No, I only sell the furniture. I carry pictures with me.” “So you came here to sell furniture? Let's see your pictures.” “No. I came here without bringing anything. But if Mama feels it necessary, I will bring them another time: wardrobes, for example, as in the palaces of Austria or France or England—Renaissance, baroque, rococo, Victorian. …”

She listened to me carefully. Twice I heard her smack her lips, I don't know if in praise or as an insult. Then she said slowly: “Happy are they who eat from the products of their own sweat, obtain pleasure from their own endeavors, and advance because of their own experiences.”

The tones sounded as if they had come out of the chest of a priest in a wayang performance. Then she called out: “Fantastic!” She was looking up at the head of the stairs. “Ah!”

Down those stairs descended the angel Annelies, in a batik kain and a traditional laced kabaya blouse. Her sanggul bun hairstyle was a bit too high, revealing her long white neck. Her neck, arms, ears, and bosom were decorated with a pattern of green-white emeralds, pearls, and diamonds. (Really, I didn't know which were diamonds and which were the others, what was real and what was fake.)

I was entranced. She must have been more beautiful and arresting than Jaka Tarub's angel in the legends of Babad Tanah Jawi. She was smiling nervously as if embarrassed. The adornments she was wearing were somewhat, indeed definitely overdone, too extravagant. And I knew she had dressed up for me and me alone. And for a countenance and presence as beautiful as that, there was no need for any adornment. Naked too, she would remain beautiful. How foolish of us to think that the beauty bestowed by the gods does not always triumph over the inventions of humans. With all those adornments from the sea and the land she looked alien, while the Javanese clothes, which she was not used to wearing, made her movements like those of a wooden doll. Everything about her seemed somehow pretentious. But it didn't matter—what is beautiful stays beautiful. It was up to me to cleverly ignore her extravagances. “She has dressed up for you, Nyo,” whispered Nyai.

Annelies walked up to us while still smiling and perhaps with a thank you readied in her heart. But before I could get in my compliment, Nyai got in first: “From whom did you learn to dress up and adorn yourself like that?” “Ah, Mama!” she exclaimed, prodding her mother's shoulder and glancing at me with her big eyes. She was blushing.

I was embarrassed to be listening to such a conversation between mother and daughter: too intimate to be heard by a stranger. Yet near Mama I felt I ought to be resolute. I had to leave behind an impression of being a man who was resolute, interesting, dashing, an unappeased conqueror of the goddess of beauty. In front of the queen I think I would also have had to exhibit the same attitude. That is the cock's plumage, the deer's antlers, the symbol of virility.

I knew what was proper and I did not involve myself in the affairs of mother and daughter. “See, Ann, Sinyo was ready to go home. It's fortunate we stopped him. Otherwise, he would have really missed out on something!” “Ah, Mama!” Annelies said again, in her sweet, spoiled manner, and prodded her mother. Her eyes glanced at me. - “Well, what about it, Nyo? Why are you silent? Have you forgotten your own custom?” “Too beautiful, Mama. What words are appropriate for beauty's beauty?” “Yes,” added Nyai, “fit to become queen of the Indies, isn't she, Nyo?” and she turned to me.

The relationship between mother and daughter seemed strange to me. Maybe it was the result of the illegitimate marriage and birth. Perhaps this is the atmosphere in the homes of all nyais. Perhaps even among modem families in Europe today and among Indies Natives far in the future. Or perhaps it wasn't right, but abnormal. Yet I liked it. And luckily the mutual praising finally ended without having led anywhere.

The light began to fade. Mama talked on. Annelies and I just listened. There were too many new things, which my teachers had never mentioned, that proceeded from her lips. Remarkable. And I was still not allowed to go home, although: “Dokar?” she said, “Out at the back, there are many such carts. If you like you can even go home in a carriage.”

A young boy began to light the gas lamps. I still did not know where the mains were located.

The servants began to prepare the dining table.

The two Roberts were summoned into the back parlor. Dinner began in silence.

Another servant entered the front room, closing the door. The back-parlor light, covered by a milk-white glass shade, shone dimly. No one said a word. Eyes just moved about from plate to bowl, from bowl to dish. Spoons, forks, and knives clinked as they touched the plates.

Nyai lifted up her head. The front door could be heard opening, without any knock, without announcement. I looked up at Nyai. She looked vigilantly toward the front room.

Robert Mellema glanced in the same direction. His eyes shone with pleasure and his lips had a satisfied smile. I also wanted to glance behind, to where their looks were directed. I held back my desire; it wasn't polite, not gentlemanly. So I glanced at Annelies. Her head bowed down, her eyes raised high, clearly she was straining her ears.

Deliberately, I stopped my spoon in midair and focused my hearing on the area behind me. Shoes walking, scraping along the floor. As time passed they became clearer, closer. Nyai stopped eating. Robert Suurhof did not put the food in his mouth; he put the spoon and fork down on his plate. I heard the steps coming closer, drowning out the tick-tock of the pendulum clock.

Robert Mellema continued eating as if nothing was happening.

Finally Annelies, who was sitting beside me, also glanced behind. She blinked open her eyes, startled. Her spoon dropped with a clang to the floor. I tried to pick it up. A servant came running and took it. Then the servant quickly got out of the way. Annelies stood up as if she wanted to confront this new arrival, who was getting closer.

I placed my spoon and fork on the plate and, following An-nelies's example, stood up and turned around.

Nyai also stood in readiness.

A shadow, splayed out by the front-room lamps, became longer and longer. The dragging steps became clearer and clearer. Then a European man emerged—tall, big, fat, too fat. His clothes were rumpled and his hair in a mess, who knows if really white or gray.

He looked in our direction. Stopped a moment. “Your father?” I whispered to Annelies. “Yes.” Almost inaudible.

Looking straight at me Mr. Mellema, dragging his feet, walked towards me. Towards me. He stopped in front of me. His eyebrows were bushy, almost white, and his face was frozen like chalk. For a moment my eyes fell to his shoes, which were dusty, unlaced. Then I remembered what my teachers had taught me: Look those who want to talk to you in the eyes. Quickly, I lifted my eyes and offered my greetings: “Good evening, Mr. Mellema,” in Dutch and in a quite polite tone.

He growled like a cat. His rumpled clothes were loose on his body. His hair, uncombed and thin, covered his forehead and ears. “Who gave you permission to come here monkey!” He hissed his sentence in bazaar Malay, awkwardly and, in accord with its contents, crudely.

Behind me Robert Mellema coughed. Then I heard Annelies holding back a sob. Robert Suurhof put his shoes into action and stood up also to extend his greetings. But the ogre in front of me paid him no heed.

I admit it: My body shook, although only a little. In such a situation I could only await words from Nyai. I could expect nothing from anyone else. It was going to be a disaster for me if she stayed silent. And indeed she was silent. “You think, boy, because you wear European clothes, mix with Europeans, and can speak a little Dutch you then become a European? You're still a monkey.” “Close your mouth!” shouted Nyai loudly in Dutch, “He is my guest.”

Mr. Mellema's eyes shifted dully to his concubine. And must something happen because of this uninvited Native? “Nyai,” said Mr. Mellema. “A mad European is the same as a mad Native!” Her eyes burned with hatred and disgust. “You have no rights in this house. You know where your room is.” The nyai pointed to a door. And her pointed finger was clawed.

Mr. Mellema still stood in front of me, hesitant. “Do I need to call Darsam?” she threatened.

The tall-big-fat man was confused; he growled in answer. He turned and walked, dragging his feet, to a door next to the room I had just occupied, and disappeared behind it. “Rob,” Robert Mellema said to his guest, “let's go outside. It's too hot in here.”

They went out together, without excusing themselves to Nyai. “Trash!” Nyai cursed.

Annelies was sobbing. “Be quiet, Ann. Forgive us, Minke, Nyo. Sit down again. Don't make a racket, Ann. Sit down in your chair.”

We both sat down again. Annelies covered her face with a silk handkerchief. And Nyai still kept an eye on the just-closed door. “No need to be ashamed in front of Sinyo,” Nyai said without looking at us, still in a rage. “And you, Nyo, you may never forget this. I'm not ashamed. Sinyo shouldn't be shocked or feel ashamed either. Don't be angry. I've done exactly what I had to. Just pretend that he doesn't exist, Nyo. Once I was indeed his faithful nyai, his loyal companion. Now he is only worthless garbage. All he is good for now is shaming his own descendants. That is your father, Ann.”

Satisfied after her outburst, she sat down again. She didn't resume her dinner. The look on her face was hard and sharp. Calmly, I looked at her. What sort of woman was this? “If I wasn't hard like that, Nyo—forgive me that I must offer a defense for myself in my humiliation—what would become of all this? His children … his business … we would be reduced to destitution. So I do not regret acting this way in front of you, Nyo.” She lowered her voice as if pleading with me. “Don't think me insolent and rude, Nyo," she said, continuing in her beautiful Dutch. "It is all for his own good. I treat him the way he wants. This is what he wants. It is the Europeans themselves who have taught me to act this way, Minke, the Europeans themselves." Her voice pleaded with me to believe. "Not at school, but in life."

I was silent. I nailed every one of her words into my memory: not in school, in life! Don't think me insolent and rude! Europeans themselves have taught me this. ...

Nyai stood up, walked slowly towards the window. And behind the door she pulled a cord that ended in a bunch of tassels. In the distance a bell could be heard ringing indistinctly. The servant girl who had just vanished reappeared. Nyai ordered her to take away the food. I still didn't know what I was supposed to do. “Go home now, Nyo,” she said. “Yes, Mama, it's better I go home.”

She walked up to me. Her eyes had their original motherly gentleness. “Ann,” she said still more softly, “let your guest go home now. Wipe away those tears.”

"Forgive us, Minke," Annelies whispered, holding her sobs back.

"It's nothing, Ann." “When holiday time arrives later, come and spend the vacation here, Nyo. Don't hesitate. Nothing will happen. What do you think? Agree? Now Sinyo must go home. Darsam will escort you in the cart.”

She walked again to the door and pulled that cord. Then she sat back down in her seat. She was amazing, this nyai: The people and everything around her were indeed in her grip, and I, myself, too. From what school had she graduated that she appeared so educated, intelligent? And she was able to look to the needs of several people at once, with a different manner for each. And if she did graduate from a school, how was she able to accept her situation as a nyai? I couldn't understand any of this.

A Madurese man arrived. He was approaching forty, shirt and pants all black, and an East Javanese destar headband on his head. A short machete was fastened at his waist. His mustache was twirled up high, pitch black and thick.

Nyai gave him an order in Madurese. I didn't catch all of what it meant. She was probably ordering that I be escorted safely home in a dokar.

Darsam stood straight. He didn't speak. He looked at me with searching eyes—as if he wanted to memorize my face—without blinking. “The young master is my guest, is Miss Annelies's guest,” said Nyai in Javanese. “Take him home. Don't let anything happen on the way. Be careful.” Apparently this was only a translation of the earlier Madurese.

Darsam raised his hand without speaking and left. “Sinyo, Minke,” Nyai confided, “Annelies has no friends. She is happy that Sinyo came here. You, of course, don't have a lot of time. I know that. Even so, try to come here often. You don't need worry about Mr. Mellema. I will look after him. If Sinyo would like, we would be very happy for you to live here. You could be taken to school each day by buggy. That's if Sinyo would like.”

Such a strange and frightening house and family! It's no wonder they have such a sinister reputation. And I answered: “Let me think about it first, Mama. Thank you for such a generous invitation.” “Don't refuse us,” Annelies said. There was rebuke in her voice. “Yes, Nyo, think about it. If you have no objections, Annelies will look after it all. Isn't that so, Ann?”

Annelies nodded in agreement.

The carriage could be heard coming along beside the house. We walked to the front of the house and found Robert Suurhof and Robert Mellema sitting silently, looking out at the darkness. The carriage stopped in front of the steps. Suurhof and I went down the steps and boarded the carriage. “Good night everybody, and thank you very much, Mama, Ann, Rob!” I said.

And the carriage began to move. “Stop!” ordered Mama. The carriage stopped. “Sinyo Minke! Come down here first.”

Like a slave I was caught in her grip. Without stopping to think for a moment, I climbed out and approached the steps. Nyai descended one step and so did Annelies, and Nyai said slowly into my ear: “Annelies has told me, Nyo—don't be afraid—is it true, you kissed her?”

Even a flash of lightning would not have startled me so greatly. Anxiety crawled through my body, down to my feet, and my feet tripped. “It is true?” she insisted. Seeing I couldn't answer, she pulled Annelies and drew her to me. Then, “So it's true. Now Minke, kiss Annelies in front of me. So that I may know that my daughter does not lie.”

I trembled. Yet I could not resist her command. And I kissed Annelies on the cheek. “I'm proud, Nyo, that it's you who kissed her. Go home now.”

I was unable to say a word all the way home. I felt as if Nyai had cast a spell over my mind. Annelies was indeed gloriously beau-, tiful. Yet her clever mother subdued people so they would bow down to her will.

Robert Suurhof didn't speak either.

And the carriage rattled as it went on grinding the street pebbles. The carriage's carbide light split open the darkness relentlessly. Our carriage was the only one on the road that night. It appeared that everyone had streamed into Surabaya to celebrate the coronation of the maiden Wilhelmina.

Darsam escorted me to my boarding house in Kranggan. He stayed until he saw me enter the house before he left to escort Suurhof home. “Ai-ai, Master Minke!” Mrs. Telinga, my talkative old landlady, called out. 'So young master doesn't eat at home anymore? I've just put a letter in your room. I see that you still haven't read the earlier letters either. The envelopes haven't even been opened. Remember Young Master, those letters were written, were given stamps, and were sent to be read. Who knows if there may be something important in them? They all seem to come from the town of B-. So, Young Master, what about it? Tomorrow there'll be no shopping money left, eh."

I gave a few coins to the garrulous, good-hearted woman. She said thank you over and over again, as usual, without it needing to come from her heart.

There was hot chocolate ready for me in my room. I drank it down quickly. I took off my shoes and shirt, jumped onto the bed, and started to reflect upon all that had happened. But my eyes fell upon the portrait of the goddess near the oil lamp on the wall. I got out of bed, studied it well, then turned it over. And I climbed back into bed.

I pushed aside the Surabaya and Batavia papers, which were, as usual, placed on my pillow. It had become my custom to read the papers before sleeping. I don't know why but I liked to seek out reports about Japan. It pleased me to find out that their youth were being sent to England and America to study. You could say I was a Japan-watcher. But now there was something more interesting—that strange and wealthy family: Nyai, with her power to grip people's hearts as if she were a sorceress; Annelies Mellema, who was beautiful, childlike, yet experienced and able in managing workers; Robert Mellema with his sharp glances, who cared about nothing except soccer, not even his own mother; Mr. Mellema, as big as an elephant, sullen, but powerless over his own concubine. Each like a character in a play. What sort of family was this? And myself? I too was powerless before Nyai. Even as I turned over on the bed her voice still called: Annelies has no friends! She is happy Sinyo has come here. You, of course, don't have much time. Even so, try to come here often . . . we would be very happy if you were to stay here. ...

It felt like I had only been asleep a little while when there was a commotion outside the house. I lit the oil lamp in my room. Five o'clock in the morning. “There is a package. For Young Master Minke”—I heard a man's voice—“milk, cheese, and butter. There is also a letter from Nyai Ontosoroh herself.”

Life went on as usual. It was, perhaps, only I who changed. Boerderij Buitenzorg in Wono-kromo continued calling, summoning me, every day, every hour. Was I the victim of black magic? I knew many Pure and Indo-European girls. Why was it only Annelies I saw before me? And why did the voice of Nyai not want to go from my soul's ear? Minke, Sinyo Minke, when are you coming?

I was confused.

Every day I left for school with little May Marais. I would walk hand in hand with her as far as her school at E.L.S., Sim-pang. Then I walked on by myself to my school on H.B.S. Street. I closely observed every carriage driver that passed by me, just in case it was Darsam. And whenever a carriage wanted to pass me from behind, I had to look around. It was as if I had some business with every carriage that passed.

At school, Annelies also hovered before me continuously. And over and over again came Nyai's voice. When are you coming? She has got all dressed up for you. When are you coming?

Robert Suurhof never bothered me with anything about

Wonokromo. He avoided me. He refused to honor his promise to respect my success with Annelies. And I somehow felt as if I were separated from reality by a gray veil. Everything was unclear; all feelings uncertain. All my school friends, Pure European or Indo, male and female, it was as if they had all changed. And they too saw changes in me. I was no longer the same easy-to-get-on-with and affable Minke.

One day, on my way home from school, I went straight to Jean Marais's workshop. He was, as usual, absorbed in his drawings, sketches, or in some design he was preparing. I hadn't wanted to go straight back to my lodgings. I didn't feel like going down to the harbor either. I didn't want to go to the auction-paper office to write up advertising texts. But I had no inclination to write any serious journalism either. I certainly had no desire to go visiting my friends' homes to try to sell furniture or seek orders for portraits.

I didn't feel like doing anything. All my body wanted to do was lie in bed turning over and over while I remembered Annelies. Only Annelies, that childlike maiden.

Mrs. Telinga never tired of asking to hear the story of my visit to Boerderij Buitenzorg, only afterwards to have me listen to her coarse, repetitious insults: “Young Master, Young Master, of course Young Master likes the daughter; but it's her mother who has the great lust. Everybody, of course, says her daughter is beautiful. No one dares go there. Young Master is very lucky. But remember this about Nyai, lest Young Master be gobbled up by her!”

Not only Mrs. Telinga and I knew, but it felt as if the whole world knew, that such indeed was the moral level of the families of nyais: low, dirty, without culture, moved only by lust. They were the families of prostitutes; they were people without character, destined to sink into nothingness, leaving no trace. But did this popular judgment apply to Nyai Ontosoroh? This was what was confusing me. No, she wasn't like that. Or was I just a careless observer? Maybe I just didn't want to know. All social classes had passed judgment on the Nyai, as well as all races: Native, European, Chinese, Arab. How could I, just one person, say no. Her order that I kiss Annelies, wasn't that a sign of her low morals? Perhaps. Yet Mrs. Telinga's insults offended something inside me. Perhaps it was because I was fantasizing. During the last few days I had been trying to convince myself that what had taken place between Annelies and myself was just a normal event in the life of a young man and a young woman. It happens to people from all walks of life: kings, traders, religious leaders, farmers, workers, even the gods in heaven. True. But an invisible finger pointed accusingly at me and said: The trouble is you're trying to justify your own fantasies.

And so that afternoon I found myself compelled to go and ask Jean Marais. I could not yet hope for a really serious conversation with him, although his Malay was getting better every day. He didn't know Dutch. That was the difficulty. His Malay was limited. My French was pretty hopeless. He resisted learning Dutch with all his might, even though he had fought in Aceh with the Dutch Colonial Army for more than four years. His Dutch was confined to military terms.

But he was my oldest friend, my companion in business. It was only proper that I ask him.

The workmen were finishing off furniture ordered by someone called Ah Tjong. I suspected that it was the one who owned the brothel next door to Nyai Ontosoroh's. Because the order was for European-style furniture, the Chinese hadn't gone to a Chinese carpenter. I had received the order through someone else.

Jean was playing with his pencil, making a sketch for his next picture. “I need to disturb you, Jean,” I said and sat on the chair at the drawing table. He lifted up his face and looked at me. “Do you know the meaning of sihirV He shook his head. “Guna-guna?” I asked. “Yes—black magic—so I have heard anyway. The Africans practice it, people say. That's if I have heard properly.”

I began to tell him of my situation, about being under a spell, and about the popular view of the nyais in general, and of Nyai Ontosoroh in particular.

He put his pencil down on top of the drawing paper, stared at me, and tried to capture and understand each of my words. Then, calmly and in a mixture of several languages: “You're in trouble, Minke. You've fallen in love.” “No, Jean. I am not in love. She is certainly an attractive, enchanting girl, but in love, no.” “I understand. You're really in trouble; it's serious when you can't tell somebody they've fallen in love. Listen, Minke, your young blood wants to have her for yourself, and you're afraid of what people will say.” He laughed slowly. “You must pay heed to and respect what people think if they are correct. If they're wrong, why pay them any heed? You're educated, Minke. An educated person must learn to act justly, beginning, first of all, with his thoughts, then later in his deeds. That is what it means to be educated. Go and visit this family two, or maybe three more times. Then you might be able to judge for yourself if Nyai and her family deserve their bad reputation.” “So you think I should go back?” “I think you should find out for yourself if what people say is fair or not. To go along with unfair gossip is wrong. You might find you're judging a family that is perhaps better than the judge himself.” “Jean, I've been asked to go and stay there.” “Take up the offer. Only don't forget your studies. But you don't really need to chase after new orders any more. Look, there are still five portraits that have to be finished. And this”—he patted his sketch paper—“I'm going to paint something I've long dreamed of doing.”

I looked at the sketching paper in front of him. The picture immediately made me forget my own problems. A Netherlands Indies soldier—it was obvious from his bamboo hat and his sword—was thrusting his foot down onto the stomach of an Acehnese fighter. The soldier was pushing his bayonet down towards the bosom of his victim. The bayonet pressed onto the black shirt, and from under the shirt emerged the breast of a young woman. The eyes of the woman were wide open. Her hair fell in bunches. over fallen bamboo leaves. Her left hand was resisting as she tried to rise. Her right hand powerlessly held a dagger. Above them both, like an umbrella, was a cluster of bamboo bent down by the attack of a strong wind. It was as if only those two lived: one who was to kill and one who was to be killed. “But this is so vicious, Jean. You like to talk about beauty. Where is the beauty in viciousness, Jean?” He sucked on his cigarette. Then: “It's not easy to explain, Minke. This picture is very personal, not intended for public display. Its beauty is in the memories it records.” He was silent, and I realized:

"So you are the soldier, Jean? You've carried out such barbarity as this?" He shook his head. "You killed this young woman?" He shook his head again. "So you freed her?" He nodded. "She must have been grateful to you." “She was not grateful, Minke. She asked me to kill her. She was ashamed that she had been sullied by the touch of an infidel.” He answered dispiritedly, and as if his words were not directed at me, but at his own past, which was now far beyond his reach. “And now she is dead. Her younger brother sneaked into the camp and stabbed her in her side with a poison-tipped dagger. She died immediately. Her killer then himself died, hearing his own cries: 'To hell with you infidel, follower of the infidels!'” “Why did her brother stab her?” Already I'd forgotten all about my own troubles.

"Her brother had continued fighting for his country, for his beliefs. His sister had surrendered. There was nobody there when she died, Minke. Her child was being taken for a walk at the time. Her husband was away on duty." “So this woman lived amongst the soldiers? As a prisoner? As a prisoner until she had a child?” “At first she was a prisoner. Then later, no longer,” he answered quickly. “So she married?” “No. She didn't marry.” “And the child who was out walking, where did it come from?” “That child was the baby she gave me, my own child, Minke.” “Jean!”

"Minke, don't tell this story to May."

All of a sudden I was overcome by emotion. I ran to find May, who was safely asleep on a wooden divan, without a sheet. I picked her up and I kissed her. She was startled and looked at me with wide-open eyes. She didn't say a word. “May! May!” I cried to her, to myself, and I carried her out and found Jean Marais again. “Jean, this is your child. This is that baby, Jean. You're not lying to me, Jean? You're lying to me, aren't you?”

The Frenchman, his chin now resting on his hand, was gazing out of the house into the distance. He didn't want to repeat his story. He didn't want to answer. And I remembered how often he'd spoken of his love for his wife. “That's why you advise me to go to Wonokromo?” I asked. “Love is beautiful, Minke, very, very beautiful, but perhaps disaster follows. You must dare to face its consequences.”

The child prattled. “Will we go for a walk, Papa?” and when he said they would go after she had bathed, she ran merrily off. I said: “Jean, I'm not sure I love this Wonokromo girl.” “Perhaps you don't or at least don't yet love this girl. It's not up to me to determine that. And also there is no love that appears suddenly out of the blue, because love is a child of culture, not a stone dropped from heaven. You must test yourself, your own heart. This girl may like you. It's clear from what you've told me that her mother is very fond of you. Fond of you after the first meeting. I don't believe in black magic. Perhaps it exists, but I don't need to believe in it, because it can only be common where life is still at a very simple level of civilization. Moreover you've said Nyai does all types of office work. Someone like that is not going to believe in black magic. She will believe more in strength of character. Only people without any character practice black magic. Nyai knows what she needs. Perhaps she realizes how lonely her daughter is. “Do you want to take May for a walk this afternoon?” “You never take her!” I replied. “She wants to go walking with you.” “Not yet, Minke. Take pity on her. People will stare at us both. One day she will hear someone say: Look at the lame, stumped foreigner and his child! No, Minke. She mustn't have her young soul scarred by some unnecessary hurt, especially not one caused by her own father's deformity. She should love me and look upon me as the father who loves her, without regard to the voices and views of others.”

I had never heard him talk so much. I had never seen him so depressed. What was happening inside him? Perhaps he was longing for his past, lost and no longer within his reach? Or for the country where he was born, brought up, and saw the sun for the first time? A country that he doesn't dare return to because he's without one leg and has a daughter born in a foreign country? Or is he longing to create a painting that will force his country to acknowledge his greatness as an artist? “You have never had any time for pity, Jean,” I rebuked him.

"You're right, Minke. As I've told you before, pity is the feeling of well-intentioned people who are unable to act. Pity is only a luxury, or a weakness. It is those who are able to carry out their good intentions who deserve praise. I can't, Minke. The more I reflect on it the more beautiful that word pity sounds here in these Indies, though not in Europe."

He sounded even more gloomy. “This is not the Jean I know,” I chided him. “I'm worried about you. You don't seem to be yourself, Jean.” “Thanks for your concern, Minke. You're becoming sharper every day.”

May came in. As soon as she found out her father wouldn't be taking her, the look on her face changed. “Go with Uncle Minke, May. It's a pity but I still have work that I must finish. Don't frown like that, darling.”

I took the little French-Acehnese Mixed-Blood girl by the hand and left the house. “Papa never wants to walk with me,” she complained in Dutch. “He doesn't believe I'm strong enough to lead him, Uncle. I'm able to make sure he doesn't fall down.” “Of course you're strong enough, May. He'll take you another time.”

I took her to Koblenfield, and she began to forget her disappointment. We sat on the grass and watched the kites battling each other. She began to prattle in Javanese mixed with Dutch and some French. I didn't pay any attention. I just said yes to everything. My own thoughts were still confused, under attack from several directions: the Mellema family, the Marais family, the changing attitude of my school friends towards me, and my own changing feelings. Some kites broke loose and whirled around the sky aimlessly.

May pulled at my hand, and pointed at a patch of clouds on the horizon. “You love your father, May?”

She looked at me with amazed eyes. I saw Jean Marais in her face. I could not find the smallest trace of the face of the young woman sprawled out under the bamboo, threatened by the bayonet. This was perhaps what Jean had looked like as a child. And this little Marais does not know at all who her father really is.

Jean, so he said himself, had once studied at the Sorbonne. He never told me in what department or to what level. Commanded by the voice of his own heart, he abandoned lectures and poured all his strength into painting. He lived in the Latin Quarter in Paris and hawked his paintings on the street. His works always sold well, but never caught society's attention or that of the Parisian critics. While hawking his paintings, he also did carvings on the street. Five years passed. He still didn't get anywhere. He was bored with his surroundings—with the mobs of sightseers who watched him make African statues or other carvings; with Paris; with his own society; with Europe. He longed for something new that might fill life's barrenness. He left Europe, went to Morocco, Libya, Algeria, and Egypt. He still didn't find that something he sought but could not identify: He never felt satisfied; he was always anxious and agitated. He still couldn't create the paintings of which he dreamed. He left Africa. By the time he arrived in the Indies, his money had run out. The only road open to him was to join the Dutch Indies Army. He joined, underwent training for several months, and departed for the front in Aceh. In his army unit too he lived within himself, having almost no contact with anyone except through the orders he received in Dutch. And he was unwilling to learn that language.

May Marais did not know, or did not yet know, any of this.

I can paint and be a soldier too, Jean Marais resolved. The Indies Natives are very simple. They will never win any war. How can daggers and spears defeat rifles and cannons? he thought. He was sent to Aceh as a private first class. The commander of his platoon, Corporal Bastian Telinga, was an Indo-European. If Jean hadn't been a Pure, he would certainly never have got higher than private second-class. Jean lived amongst the other Pure Europeans who spoke no Dutch: Swiss, Germans, Swedes, Belgians, Russians, Hungarians, Romanians, Portuguese, Spaniards, Italians—from almost all the nations of Europe—the rubbish discarded from their own countries. They were people who had given up hope, or bandits on the run, or people running from debts, or bankrupt because of gambling and speculation—adventurers all. And none of them was less than a private first-class. Second-class was reserved for Indos and Natives—generally Javanese from Purworejo.

Why mainly Natives from Purworejo? I once asked. They, -Jean said, are a very calm people, with very strong nerves. That's why the army chose them to fight the Acehnese, who are as tough and hard as steel, men of action, and able to instill terror in most people. Perseverance and stamina were absolutely essential to survive in Aceh.

He soon had to admit that his initial views about the Natives' ability to wage war turned out to be wrong. The Acehnese had great ability; it was only their weapons that were inadequate. They were also very well organized, although he acknowledged the Dutch army's outstanding ability in selecting personnel. * Jean once admitted to me he had been wrong to say that dagger, spear, and Acehnese bamboo trap would not be able to face up to rifle and cannon. The Acehnese waged war in their own special way. Using the local environment, all their abilities, and their beliefs, they were able to destroy much of the strength of the colonial army. He was astounded by this. They fought to defend what they regarded as their rights, mindless of death. Everybody, even the children! Even when defeated they fought back. They fought back with all their abilities and all their inabilities.

He once told me another story in that mixture of languages of his. The Acehnese defenses had been pushed far into the interior and to the south, to the region of Takinguen. An Acehnese commander, Tjoet Ali, had lost a great many of his men and much of his territory, yet morale was still high, a secret Jean could not fathom. They kept fighting, not only resisting the army, but resisting their own decline as well. The army's communications links were their easy targets: bridges, roads, telegraph lines, trains, and railways. Then came the drinking water, which they poisoned, surprise attacks, bamboo traps, ambushes, stabbings, running amok in the barracks.

The Dutch generals almost gave up. The Dutch were only ever able to destroy the children, the grandmothers and grandfathers, the ill, the pregnant women. And these helpless people, Jean said, felt fortunate if they died at the hands of the army. Jean's superiors spread rumors that the casualties amongst the European soldiers never reached the three thousand that they did in the Java War; but everyone was still afraid with every square of land that they stepped upon.

And Jean Marais began to admire and love these noble, heroic Natives, with their strong character and personality. For twenty-seven years they had waged war, confronting the most powerful weaponry of the age, the product of the science and the experience of the whole of European civilization.

"Love is beautiful, Minke, very, very beautiful," he had said.

But he never told me how he came to love the enemy he captured or how she may have come to love him, and to give him a beloved child, May, now sitting in my lap prattling.

I stroked her hair. For how many months was your mother able to feed you from her breasts, sweet one? You have lost something that nothing and no one can ever replace. “Look over there, Uncle,” she called out in Dutch, “above those clouds. Kites shouldn't be like crabs!” “Yes, crabs shouldn't be flying in the sky. The clouds are getting darker, May, let's go home.”

Jean Marais was still crouched over his drawing table. He looked up when we entered. May quickly went to him and told him about the crab kites over the clouds. Jean nodded attentively. I moved about looking at the finished pictures that tomorrow or the day after I'd have to deliver to customers.

Jean would never have been able to stand up to their argumentativeness. There was always something they wanted changed more to their own liking. And that was my job—a heavy job certainly—to convince them: The artist is a great French painter, and that alone is enough to guarantee the eternal appeal of the work, to make it more eternal than the customers themselves. If it's changed, that eternal appeal will be destroyed and it will become an ordinary chemical photograph. The most determined querulousness came from the female customers. It's lucky I had been able to learn a lot from listening to Jean: Women prefer to serve the present and are afraid of age; they are in the grip of dreams about their fragile youth and want to hang eternally to the youth of their dreams. Age is truly an oppression for women. You must reply to their arguments in kind: This painting will make an excellent inheritance for Madam's children, not just for Madam. (Luckily our women customers aren't all sterile.) Usually my tenacity wins out. If not, I'm forced to make threats: Well, if Madam doesn't like it, I'll pay it off myself and hang it in my room. Usually this threat arouses their curiosity. They quickly answer:

What for? And I answer: If it becomes my property there are no obstacles to stop me doing anything I like to it. Doing what for example? Yes, well I could give it a mustache . . . (but I've never actually said that). In short, until now I've never been defeated, especially after I realized women look upon argumentativeness as a measure of one's shrewdness.

"It's getting late, Jean, I'm off home."

I climbed over the hedge into the front yard of my boarding * house. Darsam had long been waiting for me with a letter. “Young Master.” He offered his respects, then he spoke in Javanese. “Nyai awaits a reply. Darsam will wait, Young Master.”

The letter reported that the family at Wonokromo was waiting for me and that Annelies had fallen into daydreaming, did not want to eat, and also that much of her work was unfinished, or incorrectly done. “Sinyo Minke, how grateful would I be, a mother with so much to do, if Sinyo would consider her difficulties. Annelies is my only helper. I cannot handle all the work myself. I'm worried about Annelies's health. It would mean so much to us both. Come and visit, Nyo, even if only for a little while. One or two hours would be enough. Though we hope very much that Sinyo will want to stay with us. Lastly, let me express our unbounded gratitude for Sinyo's cooperation.”

The letter was written in correct and proper Dutch. There was no way it could have been written by an inexperienced primary school graduate. I thought it might have been written by somebody else. At least I knew it was not written by Robert Mellema. But who cares who wrote it? I gave me courage, gave me back my character: If I was in their grip, they were also in mine. In each other's grips, if you couldn't actually say under each other's spells. A wise mother, naturally emanating authority like Nyai, is needed by every child. And a maiden whose beauty is beyond compare is needed by every youth. See, I thought: They need me in order to save their family and their business. So I was pretty remarkable too, heh? How many arguments could I now assemble to justify myself in my actions.

Good. I will go.

Nyai's letter certainly didn't exaggerate. Annelies looked gaunt. She greeted me on the front steps. Her eyes shone, bringing her face to life again; she had been so pale before she shook my hand.

Robert Mellema wasn't to be seen. And I didn't ask after him.

Nyai emerged from the doorway at the side of the front parlor. “You've come at last, Nyo. Annelies had to wait so long for you. Look after your friend, Ann; I've still a lot of work, Nyo.”

I was able to steal a glance into the room next to the front parlor. It turned out to be nothing other than the business office. Nyai closed the door, and disappeared behind it.

There arose that same feeling I had experienced the first time I came: foreboding. Something strange could happen at any moment. Be careful, this heart of mine reminded me. Be vigilant. As before, now too a voice asked me: Why are you so stupid as to come here? Why don't you go home to your own family if you're tired of boarding? Or find somewhere else to board? Why do you follow the pull of this forbidding house, not resisting, but surrendering unconditionally?

Annelies took me into the room where I had stayed last time. Darsam lifted down my suitcases and bags from the buggy and brought them into the room. “Let me put your clothes into the wardrobe,” said Annelies.

I handed over the suitcase keys and she began to busy herself. She lined up the books on the table; the clothes went into the wardrobe. Then she unpacked my bag. Darsam put the empty suitcase and bag on top of the wardrobe. And Annelies now fixed up the row of books so they looked like a column of soldiers. “Mas!” That was the first time she had called me thus—a call that made my heart pound, making me feel as if I were in the midst of a Javanese family. “Here are three letters. You haven't read them yet. Why don't you read them?”

It felt as if everyone was demanding I read the letters I received. “Three letters, Mas, all from B_ _.” “Yes, I'll read them later.”

She brought them over to me, saying: “Read them. They might be important.”

She went to open the outside door. And I put the letters on the pillow. I followed after her. in front of us a beautiful garden opened up, not big, you could almost say tiny, with a pool and a few white geese chatting away—like in pictures. A stone bench stood at the edge of the pool. “Come on.” Annelies took me outside, along a cement path hemmed in on either side by the green lawn.

We sat down on the stone bench. Annelies was still holding my hand. “Does Mas prefer I speak Javanese?”

No, I didn't want to oppress her with a language that would force her to position herself according to the complicated Javanese social order.

"Dutch is fine," I said. “We had to wait so long for you.” “I had a lot of schoolwork, Ann; I must pass.” “Mas will surely pass.” “Thank you. Next year I must graduate. Ann, I think of you all the time.”

She looked at me with a glowing face and pushed her body closer to mine. “Don't lie,” she said.

"Who would ever lie to you?" “Is it true?” “Of course. Of course.”

I held her around the waist and heard her shallow breathing. Oh Allah, You have given me the most beautiful maiden in the world. My heart raced too. “Where is Robert?” I asked in an attempt to tranquilize my heart. “Why ask that? Even Mama never asks where he is.”

There was something the matter here, but I didn't feel it was right for me to interfere. “Mama feels she can't do all her work anymore, Mas.” She bowed her head and her voice contained sorrow. “These days I have to carry out all her duties.”

I observed her pale, waxen lips. “Robert doesn't like Mama. He doesn't like me either. He's hardly ever at home. He hates everything Native, except the pleasure he can get from them. It's like he's not Mama's firstborn son, not my brother. He's like a stranger who has wandered off the road into our house.”

She obviously thought a lot about her brother, and thought about him with compassion—and she was still so young. “I haven't seen Mr. Mellema either,” I said, looking for something else to talk about. “Papa? Are you still afraid of him? Forgive that horrible night. You shouldn't think about him anymore. Papa has become such a stranger. Sometimes he only comes home once a week, then leaves again the same day. Sometimes he sleeps a while, then vanishes, I don't know to where. That's why Mama and I have to look after everything now.”

What sort of family was this? Two women, mother and daughter, working silently away to maintain a family and a business as big as this? “Where does Mr. Mellema work?” “Don't pay any attention to him, I beg you, Mas. No one knows where he works. He never speaks; it's like he's mute. And we never ask. No one talks with him. This has been going on for five years now. It feels that's how it's been for as long as I can remember. He used to be so good and so friendly. Every day he put aside time to play with us. All of a sudden, when I was in fourth class at E.L.S., everything changed. The business closed down for several days. Red-eyed, Mama came to the school to pick me up, to take me away from school forever. Beginning that day I've had to help Mama with her work in the business. Papa never appeared again, except for a few minutes every one or two weeks. Since then, Mama has never really spoken to him, or wanted to answer his questions.”

An unhappy story. “Was Robert also taken out of school?” I asked, turning the conversation. “When I was taken out of school he was in seventh class—no, he wasn't taken out.” “Where did he continue his schooling afterward?” “He passed that year, but didn't want to go on. He didn't want to work. Soccer and hunting and horseback riding—that's all he was interested in.”

"Why doesn't he help Mama?" “Because he hates Natives, says Mama. For him there would be nothing greater than to become a European and for all Natives to bow down to him. Mama refuses to bow down. He wants to control the whole business. Everyone would have to work for him, including Mama and me.” “He looks on you as a Native too?” I asked cautiously. “I am a Native, Mas,” she answered without hesitation. “You're surprised? Yes, I could call myself an Indo. I love and believe in Mama, Mas, and Mama is a Native.”

A puzzling family indeed, each member playing their part in this fearful play.

Annelies kept on talking and I just listened. “If that's what you want, that's easy, Robert, said Mama. You're an adult now. When your papa dies, go to a lawyer; perhaps you could get control over the whole business. Mama also said: But you must remember, you still have a stepbrother from a legitimate marriage, an engineer called Maurits Mellema, and you would never be able to stand up to a Pure European. You are only a Mixed-Blood. If you really want to own and run this company properly, learn to work like Annelies. You can't even govern workers, because you have never worked yourself." “Look at the swan, Ann, white, like cotton wool.” I wanted to change the conversation. But she kept on talking. “Why are you telling me all your family secrets?" “Because you are our first guest in five years. Our guest, a family guest. There have been some visitors but they've all been business contacts. There was one man, a family guest, but he was our doctor. So you're our first real guest. And you're so close to us, so good to Mama and also to me.” Her voice faded into quietness, no longer childlike. “See, I'm ready to tell you everything, Mas. And you mustn't feel restrained about anything here either. You'll be the good friend of us both.” She became very sentimental. “Everything I own is yours, Mas. You are free to do as you wish in this house.”

How lonely were the hearts of this girl and her mother in the midst of this abundant wealth. “Rest now. I want to do some work.”

She stood, ready to leave. She looked at me for a moment, hesitated, kissed me on my cheek, then quickly walked away, leaving me by myself, alone.

How long had she been saving up all her feelings? I became the receptacle into which they overflowed.

I could hear the racket from the rice factory from where I was sitting. And the sounds of the milk carts coming and going. The bang and clatter of the buffalo carts as they took things to and from the warehouse. The threatening pounding as peanuts were broken from their shells. The noise of workers joking.

I entered the room, opened up my notebook, and began writing about this strange and frightening family that, by sheer accident, had now involved me too in its affairs. Who knows, I thought, some day in the future I may be able to produce stories like When the Roses Wilt, that remarkable serial by Hertog La-moye? Yes, who knows? So far I've only written advertisements and short articles for the auction papers. With my own byline and read by the public? Who could tell?

I wrote down all of Annelies's words. And what about Dar-sam, the fighter? I still did not know much about him. With which of this forbidding family's three factions did he side? Wasn't he precisely the closest danger to all three? Danger? Is there really any danger? If there is, then I too must be under threat. If it's true there is danger, why am I staying here? Isn't it better I leave?

The knock on the door startled me. Nyai was standing in front of me. “We can't tell you how happy we are that Sinyo was prepared to come. See, Nyo, she is beginning to work again, she has got back her liveliness. Sinyo's arrival is not only helping the company, but more importantly, Annelies. She loves you and she needs your attention. Forgive my frankness, Minke.” “Yes, Mama,” I answered respectfully, more respectfully, it felt, than to my own mother. And I felt again her black magic gripping me. “All right, stay here for the time being. I will set aside buggy and driver for Sinyo's use.” “Thank you, Mama.” “So Sinyo is willing to stay here? Why are you quiet? Yes; yes, think it over first. Anyway, Sinyo's here now.” “Yes, Mama,” and her hold on me made itself felt even more. “Good. Rest. Even if a bit late, there's no harm in me congratulating you on doing so well at school.”

And so I became a new member of this family. I noted, however, that I must remain vigilant, especially towards Darsam.

I will not get too close to him. On the contrary, I must always be polite towards him. There's no doubt that Robert will hate me as a Worthless Native. Mr. Herman Mellema will, for sure, spit abuse at me whenever the opportunity arises. In short I must be vigilant—the price to be paid for the happiness of being close to Annelies Mellema. And what can be obtained in this life'without payment? Everything must be paid for, or redeemed, even the shortest happiness.

Robert didn't appear at dinnertime. Nor did the shadows and scraping strides of Mr. Mellema. “Minke, Nyo,” Nyai began, “if you like to work and strive, you'll be happy here with us. We also will feel safer with a man around the house. I mean, a man who can be relied upon.” “Thank you, Mama. That is all good and very pleasing, although I still must give it some thought first,” and I told them about the situation of Jean Marais's family and how they still needed my services. “That is good,” said Nyai. “It's proper that people have friends, friendships without self-interest. Without friends, life is too lonely.” Her words were directed more at herself. Suddenly: “Aha! Ann, Sinyo Minke is now close to you. Look well. He is already close to you. Is there anything else you want?” “Ah, Mama,” Annelies murmured as she glanced across at me. “Ah Mama! Ah Mama! That's all you can ever say. Come on, speak now, while I can hear too.”

Annelies glanced at me again and her face was scarlet. Nyai smiled happily. Then she stared at me, and said: “Nyo, this one here ... is like a little child. And what about yourself Nyo, what do you have to say now you're close to An-nelies?”

Now it was my turn to be embarrassed into silence. And there was certainly no way I would be calling out “Ah Mama” like Annelies. This woman thought quickly and sharply, able to reach straight into people's hearts, as if it were easy for her to know what lived inside people's breasts. Perhaps there lay the power with which she held people in her grasp, and bewitched them from afar. Let alone from nearby. “Why are you both silent like kittens caught out in the rain?” She laughed, pleased at her own turn of phrase.

Indeed this was no ordinary nyai. She faced me, an H.B.S. student, without any feeling of inferiority. She had the courage to state her opinion. She was'aware of her own strength of character.

We passed away the night listening to Austrian waltzes on the phonograph. Mama read a book. I don't know what book. An-nelies sat near me without talking. My own thoughts wandered to May Marais. She'd be happy here, I thought. She liked listening to European music. There was no phonograph at home, nor in my lodgings.

I began to tell them about the little girl who had lost her mother. And the fate of that mother. And the goodness of Jean Marais. And his wisdom. And his simplicity.

Nyai stopped reading, put the book down in her lap, and listened to my story.

I continued my story about Jean Marais. One day he Heard that his platoon had received orders to attack a village at Blang Kejeren. They departed early and arrived at the village around nine in the morning. Already, some distance from the village, they had let off shots into the air to frighten away opposition so no battle would be necessary. They fired into the air again while resting under the shade of some trees. A while later they set off again, ready to enter the village. The village was already empty. The platoon entered without coming up against any opposition. No one could be found, not even a baby. They started going into the houses and smashing up whatever they could.

The people had become impoverished during the twenty years of war. There was nothing the soldiers could take as souvenirs. Corporal Telinga ordered that all the houses be burned. Precisely at that moment the Acehnese came into view in the distance, like columns of ants, men and women. They all wore black. They shouted in all sorts of voices, calling to Allah. Then, all of a sudden, a group of young men appeared out of nowhere and attacked Marais's platoon. They ran amok with their daggers. No one knew where they came from. The rifles had no ammunition left. And the black ants in the distance were getting closer. Picking up their wounded, Telinga's platoon rushed from the village. Jean Marais was caught in a bamboo trap. A sharp wooden spike pierced his leg. Telinga was also caught in a trap, but it wasn't so serious. They pulled the wooden spike out of Jean's leg, and he fainted. They ran. No one could be sure what else the Acehnese had planned. A new band of attackers could appear suddenly at any moment. All they could do was run and continue to run. And take the wounded who could travel. Fifteen days later it was clear that Jean Marais was infected with gangrene at the base of his knee. Several months earlier he had lost his lover; now he was to lose a leg, cut off above the knee. “Bring the child here,” said Nyai. “Annelies would like very much to have a little sister. Wouldn't you, Ann? Oh, no, you don't need a little sister, you've got Minke now.” “Ah, Mama,” she exclaimed, embarrassed.

I was embarrassed too. That was my last chance. I'd tried to build up myself before this remarkable woman as a man with character, as somebody whole. Every time she spoke/ my efforts were brought to nothing. My individuality was being hidden by her shadow. And I knew this could not be allowed to go on forever. “Mama, permit me to ask.” I started my effort to escape from her shadow. “Mama graduated from which school?” “School?” She tilted her head as if spying on the sky, clearing her memory. “As far as I can remember, I've never gone to school.” “How's that possible? Mama speaks, reads, and maybe also writes Dutch. How is that possible without schooling?” “Why not? Life can give everything to whoever tries to understand and is willing to receive new knowledge.”

Her answer truly startled me. Such words had never been spoken by my teachers.

That night I found it difficult to sleep. My thoughts worked hard trying to understand this woman. Outsiders viewed her as only a nyai, a concubine. Or people respected her only because of her wealth. I saw her from yet another angle: from all that she was capable of doing, from everything she said. I think Jean Marais was right: You must first of all think justly. Don't sit in judgment over others when you don't know the truth of the matter.

There are many outstanding women. But I have met Nyai Ontosoroh. According to Jean Marais's stories, Acehnese women used to descend into the battlefield to fight the Indies Army, ready to die beside their men. So too in Bali. In my own birthplace women peasants worked side by side with the men in the paddy fields. Yet none of these was like Mama—she knew more than just the world of her own village.

And all my school friends knew too that there was another outstanding Native woman, a maiden, a year older than me. She was the daughter of the Bupati of J-----, the first Native woman to write in Dutch. Her writing had even been published in literary magazines in Batavia. She was seventeen when her first writings were published, writings in a language other than her mother tongue. Half of my friends denied the accuracy of these reports. How was it possible that a Native, a girl to boot, only an E.L.S. graduate, could write and articulate her opinions in the European manner, let alone have them published in a scholarly magazine? But I believed it and must believe it; it was something that strengthened my belief that I too could do what she had done.

Hadn't I already proved that I could do it? Even if still just initial attempts and in a very small way? It was indeed her example that stimulated me to write.

And now I was coming to know this older woman. She doesn't write articles but she is expert in seizing people in her grasp. She runs a big, European-type firm. She confronts her own eldest son, controls her master, Herman Mellema, trains her youngest child to be a future administrator, Annelies Mellema—the beautiful maiden of whom all men dream.

I would study this strange and frightening family. And one day I'd write.

I could not restrain my curiosity to know who this extraordinary Nyai Ontosoroh really was. It was only several months later that I found out from Annelies the story about her mother. After reordering, it came out as follows:

You must surely remember your first visit here, Mas? Who could forget it? Certainly not me. Not in all my life. You trembled as you kissed me in front of Mama. I trembled too. If I hadn't been dragged away by Mama I'd still be standing numb on the steps. Then the carriage dragged you away from me.

Your kiss felt hot on my cheeks. I ran to my room and examined my face in the mirror. Nothing had changed. There had been no chili paste with dinner that night, just a little pepper. Why were my cheeks so hot? I scrubbed and I rubbed. They were still hot. Wherever I sent my eyes off wandering they always ended up colliding with yours.

Had I gone mad? Why was it always you that appeared, Mas? Why did I suddenly feel this loss after you went away?

I changed into my nightclothes and put out the candles, got into bed. But the darkness only made your face clearer. I wanted to hold your hand as I had that afternoon. But your hands were not there. I turned onto my left side, then onto my right, but I still couldn't sleep, hour after hour. I felt there was a pair of hands within my breast whose fingers were tickling me, agitating me. I felt I needed to act. But what? I didn't know. I threw off the blanket and pillow and left the room.

I charged into Mama's room without knocking. As usual, she hadn't gone to bed. She was sitting at her table, reading. She looked at me, closed the book, and I caught a glimpse of the title, Nyai Dasima. “What's the book, Mama?”

She put the object into the cabinet.

"Why aren't you asleep?" “I want to sleep with Mama tonight.” “A girl old as you, and still wanting to sleep with your mother?” “Let me, Mama.” “Over there, climb up first!”

I got into the bed. Mama went downstairs to check the doors and windows. Then she came up again, locked the door, pulled down the mosquito net, and put out the candle. Pitch black in the room.

Near her I felt more calm, full of impatient hope, waiting for her words about you, Mas. “Well, Annelies,” she began, “why are you afraid to sleep by yourself? Aren't you grown up by now?” “Mama, has Mama ever been happy?” “Even if for only a moment and only a little, everyone has been happy, Ann.” “I don't know about now. All there is now is worry. It has nothing to do with the happiness you're asking about. What does it matter if I am happy or not? It's you I worry about. I want to see you happy.”

I embraced Mama and I kissed her in the darkness. She was always so good to me. I believed there was no one better. “Do you love Mama, Ann?”

This question, spoken for the first time, brought tears to my eyes, Mas. She had always seemed so hard. “Yes, Mama wants to see you happy always. Not ever to feel the pain that I once did. I don't want you to suffer the loneliness I suffer now: without acquaintances, without friends, let alone really close friends. Why all of a sudden do you bring up happiness?"

"Don't ask me, Mama, tell me the story." “Ann, Annelies, perhaps you don't feel it, but I've been deliberately harsh with you so that you would develop the ability to work, so in the future you won't have to be dependent on your husband, if—may it never happen—your husband turns out like your father.”

I knew Mama had lost all her respect for Papa. I understood how she felt so I never asked about it. And indeed I wasn't hoping to hear talk about that. I wanted to know if she had ever felt the way I was feeling at that moment. “When did Mama feel very, very happy?” “There were many such years after I was with Mr. Mellema, your father.” “Then, Mama?” “Do you remember when I took you from school? That was when our happiness ended. You're grown up now, it's time you knew. It's best you know what really happened. I've been meaning to tell you for several weeks now. The opportunity has never arisen. Are you sleepy?”

"I'm listening, Mama." “Your father once said earlier, when you were very, very small: A mother must pass on to her daughter everything she will need to know.” “In those days.” “Yes, Ann, in those days I respected every word that came from your Papa. I remembered them well. I made them my beacons. Then he changed, and became the opposite of everything he had ever taught me.” “Papa was clever then, Mama?” “Not only clever, but kind. It was he who taught me everything about farming, business, looking after the livestock, the office work. At first I was taught to speak Malay, then to read and write, then after that, Dutch. Your Papa not only taught me, but then also patiently tested everything he'd taught. He made me speak in Dutch with him. Then he taught me to deal with the bank, lawyers, about trade practices, everything that I've now begun to teach you.”

"Why did Papa change so much, Mama?" “There was a reason, Ann. Something happened. Just that once, then he lost all his goodness, his cleverness, his intelligence, his skills. Broken, Ann, destroyed in an instant. He became someone else, an animal that could no longer recognize his own children or his wife.”

Mama didn't continue her story right away. It was as if the tale was an omen about my future, Mas. The world became more and more still. All that could be heard was our own breathing. Probably, if Mama had not been so hard towards Papa—so Mama told me again and again—who knows what might have happened to me. Perhaps something far, far worse than I could ever imagine. “At the time it happened I thought of taking him to a mental hospital. But I hesitated, Ann. What would people think about you later, Ann? If your father was proven to be mad and was declared by the law as 'under custodial care'? His business, his wealth, and his family would be under the control of an executor appointed by a court of law. Your mama, just a Native, would have no rights over anything, and would not be able to do a thing for her child, you, Ann. All our backbreaking efforts, with never a holiday, would have been in vain. And my giving birth to you, Ann, would have been in vain too, because the law would not acknowledge my motherhood, just because I'm a Native and was not legally married. You understand?" “Mama!” I whispered. I'd never dreamed the troubles she faced had been so great. “Even permission for you to marry would not come from me, but from that executor—neither kith nor kin. By taking your papa to a mental hospital, by involving the courts, the condition of your papa would become public knowledge, the public would. . . you, Ann, your fate then, Ann. No!” “But why would I suffer, Mama?” “Don't you understand? What would happen to you if everybody knew that you were the daughter of a crazy man? How would we behave in front of everybody?”

I hid my head in the crook of her arm, like a chick.

"His madness was not hereditary," she said to reassure me. “He became so because of a misfortune. But people may not understand that, and you could be thought to have the same lineage.” I became frightened. “That's why I've let him be. I know where he's hiding. As long as no one else knows.”

Slowly my own problem was pushed aside by my pity for Papa. “Let me, Mama, let me look after Papa.” “He doesn't know you.”

"But he's my papa, Mama." “Shhh! Pity is only for those who are conscious of their condition. You need pity, not him—the child of someone like him. Ann, you must understand: He is no longer a human being. The closer you are to him, the more your life is threatened by ruin. He has become an animal who can no longer tell good from evil. He's no longer capable of any service to his fellow human beings. It's over, don't ask about him again.”

I put to sleep my desire to know more. Whenever Mama was serious like that, it wasn't wise to press her further. I wasn't acquainted with any other mothers and children. Both of us had no friends, no comrades. Life as an employer dealing with workers, and as a business person dealing with customers, surrounded by people with no concerns besides business, had left me incapable of making comparisons. I didn't know how other Indos lived. Mama not only didn't allow me to mix sociably, but did not ever leave me the time that would have made it possible. Mama was the only greatness and power that I knew. “You must understand, don't forget it for as long as you live, the two of us must strive with all our might to make sure no one ever knows that you are the child of a man who has lost his mind.” Mama closed the matter.

We were both silent. I didn't know what she was thinking about or imagining. Within my breast those fingers began tickling again. I couldn't stand it. She still hadn't spoken about you, Mas. Did she approve of you or not, Mas? Or were you just to be considered another new factor in the business?

If felt as if the darkness did not exist. Only you existed. Nothing besides you! I had to bring to an end this unpleasant story of Mama's. “Mama, tell me how you met and then how it was when you lived with Papa.” “All right, Ann. But don't be shocked. You are a spoiled and happy child compared with your mama when she was younger. All right, I'll tell you.”

And she began her story:

I had an elder brother, Paiman. He was born on the market day of Paing, so he was named with the first syllable Pai. I was three years younger, and named Sanikem. My father changed his name after he was married to Sastroto. The neighbors used to say the name meant the foremost scribe.

People said that my father was very industrious. He was respected as the only person in village who could read and write, the sort of reading and writing used in offices. But he wasn't satisfied with just being a clerk in the factory. He dreamed of a higher post, even though the job he held was quite a respected one. He no longer needed to hoe the ground or plow or labor, or plant or harvest sugar cane.

My father had many younger brothers and sisters as well as cousins. As a clerk he had great difficulty in getting them jobs at the factory. A higher post would have made it easier, and also it would have raised him up higher in the eyes of the world, especially as he wanted his relations to be able to work in the factory as something more than just laborers and coolies. At the very least they should be foremen. You didn't need a blood relative as a clerk to get jobs as coolies—anybody could get a job as a coolie as long as the foreman agreed.

He worked diligently and became even more diligent for more than ten years. But still no promotion, though his salary and commission rose every year. So he tried every other way: the traditional Javanese magic men, the dukuns; magic formulas; he even went on rice fasts, Monday and Thursday fasts. Still no result.

He dreamed of becoming paymaster: cashier, holder of the cash of the Tulangan sugar factory in Sidoardjo. And who did not have business with the factory paymaster? There were the cane foremen: They came to receive their money and leave their thumbprints. If the foreman refused to accept a toll on the coolies' wages, he could withhold the foreman's gang's weekly wages. As paymaster he would be a big man in Tulangan. Merchants would bow down in respect. The Pure and Mixed-Blood tuans would greet him in Malay. The stroke of his pen meant money! He would be counted among the powerful in the factory. People would listen to his words—"Sit down on the bench there"—in order to receive their money from his hands.

Pathetic. These dreams did not bring him a rise in position, respect, or esteem. On the contrary, they brought hatred and disgust. And the position of paymaster remained hanging in limbo, far away. His crawling behavior, which often harmed his friends, caused him to be cut off from society. He was isolated in the midst of his own world. But he didn't care. He was indeed hard-hearted. His trust in the generosity and protection of the white-skinned tuans could not be broken. People were sickened to see the things he did to get the Dutch tuans to come to his house. One or two did turn up and he served them with everything that pleased them.

But the post of paymaster still did not come his way.

He even went as far as using a dukun magic man and ascetic practices to cast a spell on the tuan administrator, the Tuan Besar Kuasa, the “Great, Powerful Tuan,” to come to the house. Also to no avail. On the other hand, he often visited the Tuan's house, not to see the official on some business but to help with the manual work in the back of the house! The tuan administrator never took any notice.

I was revolted by all this. Sometimes I would watch my father and feel moved. His whole body and soul wrestled with that dream. How he humiliated himself and his dignity! But I didn't dare say anything. Sometimes I did pray that he would stop his shameful behavior. The neighbors often said it was better, and indeed best, to ask of Allah, for how great anyway was mankind's power; but it was undignified to beg from the white people. I did not pray that he obtain his post, but rather that he be able to shake himself free from his shameful behavior. At that time I would not have been able to explain all this. It was something I just felt inside me. But all my prayers were to no avail.

Tuan Besar Kuasa was a bachelor, as was usually the case with newly arrived Pures. He was, perhaps, older than my father, Sas-trotomo, the clerk. People said my father once tried to offer him a woman. He not only rejected the offer and refused to say thank you but abused my father and threatened to sack him. After that my father became the object of public ridicule. My mother quickly grew thin and frail as she listened to people's taunts: "Maybe he'll end up offering his own daughter." They meant me.

You must certainly be able to imagine how suffocating life became after that. From that time on I never dared leave the house. My eyes were always looking uncontrollably to the front room to see if there was a white-skinned guest. Thanks be to God, there never was.

Unlike the other Dutch men, Tuan Besar Kuasa didn't like participating in the tayub dance festivities. Every Sunday he went to Sidoardjo for devotions at the Protestant church. At seven in the morning he could be seen on a horse or in a carriage. I myself once saw him from afar.

When I turned thirteen I was kept at home, and was only acquainted with the kitchen, back parlor, and my own room. All my friends had already married. Only when a neighbor or relative visited us did I ever feel that I had the freedom of the house as I had in my childhood. I wasn't even allowed to sit on the porch. Not even to step onto its floor.

When the factory stopped work and the employees and workers went home, I often watched from inside as someone would walk back and forth, all the time glancing at our house. Of course, all our lady guests said I was beautiful, the flower of Tulangan, the blossom of Sidoardjo. And if I looked at myself in the mirror, I found no reason not to agree with their flattery. My father was a handsome man. My mother—I never knew her name—was a pretty woman and knew how to look after her body. Actually my father should properly have had two or three wives, especially as he owned land that was rented by the factory and other land worked by tenants. But he didn't. He felt it was enough to have one wife who was beautiful. His only other dream was to become the paymaster, factory cashier, the most respected Native, for the rest of his life.

That was how things were, Ann.

By the time I reached fourteen, people already considered me an old maid. I'd already begun having periods two years earlier. Father had some special plan for me. Even though people hated him, proposals of marriage to me came in often. All were refused. From my room I heard it happen several times. Unlike other Native women, my mother had no say in any of this. Father decided everything. My mother did once ask what sort of son-inlaw he was hoping for. He didn't answer.

No, Ann, I'm not going to be like my father and decide what sort of son-in-law I must have. You choose; I only advise. But that was my situation, Ann, the situation of all young girls then—they could do nothing else but wait for a man to take them from the house, to who knows where, as wife number who knows what, first or fourth. My father and my father alone determined everything. You were lucky indeed if you turned out to be the first and only wife. And that was an extraordinary thing in a factory area. There was more. The girl never knew beforehand whether the man would be young or old. And once married, the girl had to serve this man, whom she had never met before, with all her body and soul, all her life, until she died or until he became bored and got rid of her. There was no other way, no choice. He could be a criminal, a drunkard, and gambler. No girl would know until after she became his wife. You were lucky if the one who came was a good man.

One night, the tuan administrator, Tuan Besar Kuasa, came to the house. I was on edge. My father was rushing here and there giving orders to Mother and me to do this and that, and then canceling them with still other orders. He ordered me to put on my best clothes and once or twice came in to watch me putting on my makeup. I was indeed suspicious—maybe the people's whisperings were true. My mother was even more suspicious. Nothing had happened yet, but she was already crying and sobbing in a corner of the kitchen, silent in a thousand tongues.

My father, Clerk Sastroto, ordered me to come out and serve strong coffee and milk, and cakes. My father had, of course, already given orders: Make the coffee strong.

I came out carrying a tray. The coffee and cakes were on it. I didn't know what Tuan Besar Kuasa's face was like. It was not proper for a well-mannered girl to lift up her eyes and face towards a male guest who was not known well to the family, especially if he was white. I kept my head down, placing the contents of the tray on the table. Even so, his trousers were visible; they were made from white drill cloth. And his shoes: big, long. A sign that the man was tall and big.

I felt the eyes of Tuan Besar Kuasa pierce my hands and my neck. “This is my daughter, Tuan Besar Kuasa,” my father said in Malay. “It's time she had in-laws,” responded the guest. His voice was big, heavy and deep, as if it came from his whole chest. No Javanese had a voice like that.

I withdrew again to await new orders. And no orders came. And then the Tuan Besar Kuasa left with father, who knows to where.

Three days later, after lunch, midday Sunday, Father called me. He sat with Mother in the central room. I knelt in front of him. “Don't, Papa, don't,” Mother protested. “Sanikem, Kem, Ikem,” Father began, “put all your possessions and clothes into your mother's suitcase. Dress yourself well, neatly, attractively.”

Ah, how many questions attacked my heart! I must carry out all my parents' orders, especially Father's. I could hear my mother protest and protest, but father took no notice. I packed all my clothes and possessions. My clothes could have been considered expensive and numerous, compared to those of other girls, so I had looked after them well. I had more than six batiks. Among them were some I had made myself.

And I came out carrying the old brown suitcase, with its dents here and there. Father and Mother were still sitting in the same place. Mother refused to change clothes. Then all three of us left in the carriage that was waiting in front of the house.

Once in the carriage, Father spoke, his voice clear and free of hesitation. “Look at your home, Ikem. From today this is no longer your home.”

I had to be able to understand his meaning. I heard Mother sobbing. I was indeed being expelled from my home. I also wept.

The carriage stopped in front of Tuan Besar Kuasa's house. We all got down. That was the first time Father did anything for me: He carried my suitcase.

I didn't dare look around me. Yet I felt there were thousands of pairs of eyes staring at us in amazement.

I just stood there at the top of the steps of that stone house.

My thoughts and feelings only added to my burden, sucking everything from my body. All that was left of my body was its skin. So in the end I was being brought here. Truly, Ann, I was ashamed to have as a father Sastroto the clerk. He was not fit to be my father. But I was still his daughter, and there was nothing I could do. Neither the tears nor the tongue of my mother could prevent the disaster. Let alone I, who neither understood nor owned this world. I did not even possess my own body.

Tuan Besar Kuasa came out. He smiled happily and his eyes were bright. And I heard his voice. In a foreign sign-language he invited us to come up. In a flash it became clearer to me just how big and tall his body was. Perhaps three times as heavy as Father. His face was reddish. His nose protruded very much, enough at once for three or four Javanese noses. The skin on his arms was coarse like an iguana's skin, and was thick with yellow hair. I gnashed my teeth, bowed my head down further. His arms were as big as my legs.

So it was true that I was to be surrendered to this white, iguana-skinned giant. I must be strong, I whispered to myself. No one is going to help you! All the devils and demons had encircled me.

For the first time in my life, at the invitation of Tuan Besar Kuasa, I sat on a chair the same height as Father. Before the three of us: Tuan Besar Kuasa. He spoke in Malay. I could catch only a few words. During the conversation everything felt as if it were surging and then falling again like the ocean. I could not find a moment of peace. Tuan Besar Kuasa took out an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Father. He also took out a piece of paper with writing on it and Father put his signature to it. Afterwards I found out the envelope contained twenty-five guilders, representing Father's surrender of me to him, along with the promise that Father would be made cashier after first successfully completing a two-year trial period.

So, Ann, that was the simple ritual whereby a child was sold by her own father, Clerk Sastrotomo. And who was it who was sold: I, myself, Sanikem. From that moment on I lost all respect and esteem for my father —for anyone who has ever sold their own children, for whatever purpose or reason.

I kept my head bowed down, knowing that no one would be able to take up my cause. In this world only Father and Mother held power. If Father was as he was, if Mother could not defend me, what could anyone else do?

Father's final words:

“Ikem, you must not leave this house without the permission of Tuan Besar Kuasa. You may not return home without his permission and without my permission.”

I did not look at his face as he spoke those words. I kept my head bowed.

Father and Mother went home in the same carriage. I was left on the chair, bathing in my own tears, shaking and not knowing what I must do. The world seemed dark. Looking up from under my bowed head, my vision blurred, I could still see Tuan Besar Kuasa as he entered the house after having said farewell to my parents. He picked up my suitcase and took it into a room. He came out of the room and approached me. He pulled my hand, ordering me to stand. I trembled. It wasn't that I didn't want to stand up, or that I was rebelling against an order. I didn't have the strength to stand. My kain was soaking with sweat. My legs trembled so badly, it was as if my bones and sinews had come loose from their joints. He picked me up as if I were an old pillow, carried me in his arms into the room, and put me down on a beautiful, clean bed, powerless. I was not able even to sit. I rolled over; perhaps I fainted. But my eyes could still vaguely make out the room. Tuan Besar Kuasa opened my suitcase and put my clothes into a big wardrobe. He wiped the suitcase with a cloth and put it inside the bottom section.

He returned to me, where I had rolled over prostrate on the bed. “Don't be afraid,” he said in Malay. His voice was low like thunder. His breath blew in my face.

I closed my eyes tightly. What was this giant going to do to me? He picked me up and carried me around the room like a wooden doll. He took no notice of my wet kain. His lips touched my cheeks and my lips. I could hear his breath, which blew hard into my ears. I dared not cry. I dared not move. My whole body was soaked in a cold sweat.

He stood me on the tiles. He caught me again when he saw that I slumped, about to collapse. He picked me up again and hugged me and kissed me. I can still remember his words, though I didn't then understand them: “Darling, my darling, my doll, darling, darling.”

He threw me up and caught me on his hip. He rocked me, and that way I got back some of my strength. He stood me up again on the floor. I swayed and he guarded me with his hand so I would not fall. I still swayed, falling headlong onto the edge of the bed.

He strode towards me, and opened my lips with his fingers. With signs he ordered me to brush my teeth. He walked me outside to the back of the house, to the bathroom. That was the first time I saw a toothbrush and how to use it. He waited until I finished, and my gums hurt all over.

Again, with signs, he ordered me to bathe and to scrub myself with scented soap. I carried out all his orders as if they were from my own parents. He waited for me outside the bathroom with sandals in his hands. He put the sandals on my feet. Very, very big—the first sandals I ever wore in my life—made from leather, heavy.

He carried me inside the house to the room and sat me in front of a mirror. He rubbed my hair with a thick cloth until it was dry. I later found out the cloth was called a towel. Then he put oil on my hair—its scent was so fragrant. I didn't know what kind of oil it was. And it was he too who combed my hair, as if I couldn't. He tried to set my hair in a bun, but he couldn't and he let me finish it.

Then he instructed me to change clothes, and he observed all my movements. I felt I had no soul anymore, like a shadow puppet in the hands of the puppet master. After I had finished dressing, he powdered my face. Then he put a little lipstick on my lips. He took me out of the room and called his two maidservants. “Look after my nyai well!”

And such was my first day as a nyai, a concubine, Ann. And it turned out that his caring and friendly actions drove away some of my fears.

After giving the orders to his servants, Tuan Besar Kuasa left. Who knows to where. The two women babbled about how lucky I was to be taken as a nyai. I did not want to say anything. I didn't know this house and its customs. Of course there was in my heart the wish to run. But from whom could I seek protection? Then what would I do? I didn't dare. I was in the hands of someone very powerful, more powerful than Father, than all the Natives in Tu-langan.

They prepared food and drinks for me. Every other minute they knocked on the door, offering this and suggesting I take that.

I was mute, just sitting on the floor, not daring to touch anything in the room. My eyes were open, but I was afraid to look: Perhaps this was death in life.

That night Tuan came. I heard the steps of his shoes as they came nearer. He came straight into the room. I shuddered. The lamp, which the servants had lit earlier in the evening, threw the light onto his clothes, all white and dazzling. He came up to me. He picked up my body from the floor, put it on the bed, and laid it down there. It seemed I dared not even breathe, afraid that I might enrage him.

I don't know how long that mountain of flesh was with me.

I fainted, Annelies. I didn't know any longer what was happening.

As soon as I regained consciousness, I knew I was no longer the Sanikem of the previous day. I'd become a real nyai. Later I found out the name of that Tuan Besar Kuasa: Herman Mellema. Your papa, Ann, your true papa. And the name Sanikem disappeared forever.

You're already asleep? Not yet? Not yet?

Why am I telling you this story, Ann? Because I don't want to see my child go through such cursed experiences as these. You must marry properly. Marry someone like you, of your own will. You, my child, you must not be treated like a piece of livestock. My child may not be sold to anyone, no matter what the price. Mama will make sure that such a thing does not happen to you. I will fight to preserve the dignity of my child. My mother was incapable of defending me, so she was not fit to be my mother. My father sold me like the offspring of a horse; he wasn't fit to be my father. I don't have any parents.

Life as a nyai is very, very difficult. A nyai is just a bought slave, whose only duty is to satisfy her master. In everything! Then, on the other hand, she has to be ready at any moment for the possibility that her master, her tuan, will become bored with her. And she may be kicked out with all her children, her own children, unrecognized by Native society because they were born outside wedlock.

I swore in my heart I would never look upon my home or my parents again. I did not even care to remember them. I never wanted to think about that humiliating event again. They had made me into a nyai like this. So I must become a nyai, a bought slave, a good nyai, the very best nyai. I studied everything possible about my master's wants: cleanliness, Malay, making the bed, ordering the house, cooking European food. Yes, Ann, I would have revenge upon my parents. I had to prove to them that whatever they had done to me, I would be more worthy of respect than they, even if only as a nyai.

Ann, I lived for one year in the house of Tuan Besar Kuasa, Herman Mellema. I never went out, was never taken anywhere or met any guests. What would have been the point anyway? I myself was ashamed to meet the outside world. Especially acquaintances, neighbors. I was even ashamed to have parents. I ordered all the servants to go. I did all the housework myself. There were to be no witnesses to my life as a nyai. There were to be no reports about me: a degraded woman, without value, no real will of her own.

Clerk Sastrotomo came to visit several times. I refused to receive him. Once his wife came. I wasn't even prepared to look at her. Mr. Mellema never chided me for my behavior. On the contrary, he was very satisfied with everything I did. It appeared he was very pleased with how I liked to learn. Ann, your papa cared for me very much. But all that could not mend my wounded pride and self-respect. Your papa remained a stranger to me. And indeed your Mama never made herself dependent on him. I always looked upon him as someone I did not really know, who could leave home for the Netherlands at any moment, leaving me, and forgetting everything about Tulangan. Indeed, I prepared myself precisely for that eventuality. If Tuan Besar Kuasa went away, I had to be able not to return to the house of Sastrotomo. Mama learned to be thrifty, Ann, to save. Your papa never asked how I used the shopping money. He himself used to buy the monthly provisions in Sidoardjo or Surabaya.

Within a year I had saved more than a hundred guilders. If one day Mr. Mellema went home, or got rid of me, I'd have capital to take to Surabaya and would be able to begin to trade in whatever I liked.

After I'd lived with Mr. Mellema a year, his contract expired.

He didn't extend it. Ever since he arrived in Tulangan, he had kept dairy cattle from Australia and I was taught how to look after them. In the evening I was taught to read and write, to speak and to put together Dutch sentences.

We moved to Surabaya. Mr. Mellema bought a large piece of land in Wonokromo, our place here now, Ann. But it wasn't as busy as this then, still bush and patches of new jungle. The cattle were moved here.

At that time I began to feel glad, happy. He always paid attention to me, asked my opinion, invited me to discuss everything with him. Gradually I came to feel I was equal to him. I was no longer ashamed if I had to meet with old acquaintances. Everything that I had learned and done during that year had restored my self-respect to me. But my outlook was still the same: I readied myself to be no longer dependent on anyone. Of course, it was going too far for a Javanese woman to speak about self-respect, especially one as young as I was then. It was your papa who taught me, Ann. It was much later that I was able truly to feel the meaning of that self-respect.

Father also visited us at our new address several times, but I still refused to meet him. “Meet your father,” Mr. Mellema ordered. “No matter what, he's still your father.” “I did indeed have a father, once, not any more. If he wasn't Tuan's guest, I would have already thrown him out. It'd be better to leave here than meet him.” “If you went, what would happen to me? What about the cattle? There'd be nobody to look after them.” “There are many people who you can hire to look after them.”

"Those cows only know you."

So it was that I began to understand that in reality I was not at all dependent on Mr. Mellema. On the contrary, he was dependent on me. I then began to take a role in making decisions on all matters. He never rejected this. He never forced me to do anything, except study. In this matter, he was a hard but good teacher. I was an obedient and good pupil. I knew everything he was teaching me would, one day, be of use to me and my children if he went home to the Netherlands.

Tuan never pressured me about Sastrotomo again. Several times that clerk passed on messages through Tuan that if I was unwilling to meet him, then could I write him a letter? I never responded to any of this. I never wrote even one or two lines to him, even though I could now write well in both Malay and Dutch. Sastrotomo wrote again and again. I never read any of his letters; I just sent them back.

Then, once, Mother and Father came to Wonokromo. Tuan was uneasy, perhaps embarrassed, because I still refused to meet them. The guests, according to Tuan, had kept pressing to meet me. Mother had cried. Through Tuan, I said: “Consider me your egg that has fallen from the egg rack. Broken. It's not the egg's fault.”

With that, all business between my parents and me was over.

Why are you squeezing my arm, Ann? I've brought you up to be a business woman and merchant. You should not be sentimental. Our world is one of profit and loss. You don't agree with your Mama's attitude, do you? Even fowls, and the hen most of all, of course, defend their chicks, even against the eagle in the sky. It was only proper that my parents received fitting punishment. You too may take that attitude towards Mama one day. But later, when you're capable of standing on your own feet.

Tuan then imported more cattle, also from Australia. The work increased. Workers had to be hired. Tuan began to hand over all the work within the business to me. At first I was afraid to give the workers orders. Tuan guided me. He said: Their employer is their livelihood. You are the master of their livelihood! Then, under his supervision, I began to dare to give orders. He remained a hard and wise teacher. No, he never hit me. Had he done so just once, my bones would have shattered. As difficult as it was, I was slowly able to do what he wished.

Tuan himself spent most of his time away looking for customers. Our business began to flourish.

At that time Darsam arrived, an unemployed vagrant. But he loved to work. He would do anything that was given to him. One night, after a knife fight, he caught a thief. The thief died. Yes, there was a court case, but he was freed. Since then I have put my trust in him. I've made him my right-hand man. In the meantime Tuan spent less and less time at home.

I almost forgot to tell you this too, Ann. It was Tuan who taught me how to dress properly, to choose matching colors. He liked to wait upon me while I put on my makeup. On those occasions he would say: “You must always be beautiful, Nyai. A crumpled face and untidy clothes also reflect a crumpled and untidy business. No one will trust you.”

See how I fulfilled all his desires? How I satisfied all his needs?

I was always neat and tidy. Sometimes I even put on makeup before sleeping. To be attractive and beautiful is truly better than being crumpled, Ann. Remember that. And nothing bad is attractive. If I were a man, I'd tell my friends that any woman who was unable to look after her own beauty was not worth marrying: "She can't do anything, she can't even look after her own skin," I would say.

Tuan said: “You are not allowed to chew betel nut, that way your teeth will stay gleaming white.”

And I never chewed betel nut.

Ann, almost every month books and magazines arrived from the Netherlands. Tuan liked to read. I don't know why you're not like your father, especially when I like to read too. None of this reading material was in Malay, let alone Javanese. When the work was finished, at twilight, we'd Sit in front of our hut, a bamboo hut, Ann—we didn't have this beautiful house then—and he would order me to read. Also newspapers. He listened to my reading, correcting me when I was wrong, explaining the meaning of words I didn't understand. So it went every day until eventually I was taught how to use a dictionary by myself. I was only a bought slave. I had to do everything as he wished. Every day. Then he gave me a quota of reading. Books, Ann. I had to finish them and retell their contents.

Yes, Ann, as time went on, the old Sanikem began to disappear completely. Mama grew up into a new person with a new vision and new views. I no longer felt like the slave who was sold years before in Tulangan. I felt as if I no longer had a past. Sometimes I asked myself: Had I become a Dutch woman with brown skin? I didn't dare answer, even though I saw the backwardness of the Natives around me. I didn't mix very much with Europeans, except with your papa.

I once asked him if European women were taught as I was now being taught. Do you know how he answered? “You are far more capable than the average European woman, especially the Mixed-Bloods.”

Ah, how happy I was with him, Ann! How clever he was at flattering me and encouraging me. I was ready to surrender my whole body and soul to him. If my life was to be short, I wanted to die in his arms, Ann. I knew my decision to cut off my links with the past was right. He fitted exactly the Javanese description of a husband: instructor and god. Perhaps to prove what he said, he subscribed to some women's magazines from the Netherlands for me.

Then Robert was born. Four years later, you, Ann. The business got bigger. Our land grew larger. We were able to buy some wild forest at the edge of our land. All the land was bought in my name. There were no rice paddies or other fields yet. After the business became very large, Tuan began to pay me for my labor, as well as for the years that had already gone by. With that money I bought a rice mill and other plants and equipment. Since then the business was no longer the property of Mr. Mellema as my master, but also my property. Then I received a share of five years' profit, five thousand guilders. Tuan obliged me to save it in a bank under my own name. By then we had named the business Boer-derij Buitenzorg. And because I carried out all its affairs, people who had dealings with me called me Nyai Ontosoroh, Nyai Buitenzorg.

Asleep yet? Not yet? Good.

After following the women's magazines for a long time and carrying out much of what they taught, I repeated my question to Tuan: “Am I like a Dutch woman yet?”

Your papa laughed broadly. “It's impossible for you to be like a Dutch woman. And it's not necessary either. It's enough that you are as you are now. Even thus, you're cleverer and better than all of them. All of them!” He laughed expansively again.

Of course he was exaggerating. But I was pleased and happy. At least I was not below them. It pleased me to hear his praises, fie never criticized, there was nothing but praise. He never ignored my questions; they were always answered. I became more confident, more daring.

Then Ann, then this happiness was horribly shaken, rocking the foundations of my life. One day Tuan and I went to court to acknowledge Robert and you as the children of Mr. Mellema. In the beginning I thought that with such acknowledgment my children would receive legal recognition as legitimate children. But it wasn't so, Ann. Your elder brother and you continued to be considered illegitimate, but now you were recognized as the children of Mr. Mellema and could use his name. However, the court's decision also meant that the law no longer recognized you as my children. You weren't my children any longer, though it was I who gave birth to you. Since that day, both of you, according to the law, were the children of Mr. Mellema alone—according to the law, Ann, Dutch law in these Indies. Don't be mistaken. You're still my child. Only then did I realize how evil the law was. You obtained a father, but lost a mother.

Following that, Ann, Tuan wanted you both to be baptized. I didn't go with you to church. You all returned home quickly. The priest refused to baptize you. Your papa became gloomy. “These children have the right to a father,” said Tuan. “Why don't they have the right to receive the absolution of Christ?”

I didn't understand such matters, and was silent. Afterwards I found out that you could only become legitimate if we married in a civil registry office. You could then be baptized, so I began to press your papa that we marry. I urged and urged. Your papa, who had been depressed over those last few days, all of a sudden became angry, the first time he'd ever been angry in all those years. He didn't answer. And he never explained the reasons either. So, according to the law, you are still illegitimate children. And you've never been baptized either.

I didn't try again, Ann. I had to be happy with things as they were. No one would ever call me Mrs. The title Nyai would follow me forever, for all my life. It didn't matter as long as you both had a respected father, who could be relied upon, who could be trusted, who had bhhor, especially as that acknowledgment meant a great deal in your own society. My own interests need not concern anyone, as long as you both obtained what was rightfully yours. My interests? I could look after them myself. Ah, you're asleep. “No, Mama,” I denied.

I still awaited her words about you, Mas. At another time, when another opportunity arose, perhaps she would not talk as much as this. So I had to be patient until she turned to talking about our relationship, Mas.

So I asked, leading her on: “So Mama eventually loved Papa too.” “I don't know what the meaning of love is. He carried out his responsibilities, so too did I. That was enough for us both. If, in the end, he had gone home to the Netherlands, I would not have tried to stop him, not only because I had no right to do so, but because we owed each other nothing. He could leave any time he liked. I felt strong with everything I'd learned and I'd obtained, everything I owned and could do. Anyway, Mama was just a concubine whom he'd bought once from my parents. My savings amounted to more than ten thousand guilders, Ann.” “Mama never visited the family in Tulangan?” “I had no family in Tulangan. Only in Wonokromo. My brother Paiman visited me several times and I would receive him. He came to ask for help. It was always the same. The last time he came was to report: Sastrotomo died in a cholera epidemic along with all the others. 'His wife had died earlier, who knows of what.'” “Perhaps it would be better if we visited there, Mama?” “No, it's better the way it is now. Let the past be severed from the present. The wounds to my pride and self-respect still haven't healed. If I remember how I was so humiliatingly sold . . . I'm not able to forgive the greed of Sastrotomo and the weakness of his wife. Once in their lives people must take a stand. If not, they will never become anything.” “You're too hard, Mama, too hard.”

"And what would become of you if I wasn't ready to be hard? Hard towards everybody. In this, let me be the only victim; I've already accepted my fate as a slave. You're the one who is too weak, Ann, showing pity where it's out of place."

And Mama still hadn't talked about you. It seemed that Mama had never loved Papa, so I was embarrassed to talk about it, Mas. Papa remained a stranger to Mama. While you, Mas, why were you so close to me now? And why did I always want to be near you? “Then the second blow fell, Ann,” Mama continued. “And the wound was never to heal.” ***** The government decided to repair and upgrade Tanjung Perak, Surabaya's harbor. A team of harbor engineers was brought out from the Netherlands. At that time our dairy business was expanding well. Every month there were more and more requests for regular deliveries. The whole D.P.M., the Dutch oil company, was ordering from us. All of a sudden, like a thunderbolt, disaster crashed down. A thunderbolt of disaster. (Mama went downstairs to get something to drink. The room was dark. No one was listening to us in that upstairs room. It was a still night. The tick-tock of the pendulum clock could be faintly heard coming from the living room through the open door. And that sound disappeared when Mama came back and closed the door.)

There was a young engineer in that team of experts. I first read his name in the newspaper: Engineer Maurits Mellema. A little of his life story was presented. He was a hard-headed engineer. Already in his short career he had proved his great ability, it said.

Perhaps he's your papa's family, I thought. I didn't want anybody else mixing in our lives, which had become so calm, stable, and happy. Our business must not be touched by anyone. So I hid the paper before your papa was able to read it. I said it hadn't arrived—perhaps the delivery man was sick. He didn't ask further about it.

Three months later, Mama went on, after you and Robert had left for school, a guest arrived in a big, beautiful government carriage pulled by two horses. Your papa was working out back. Mama was working in the office.

The government carriage stopped at the front steps. I left the office to greet it. Perhaps some government office needed dairy products. I saw a young European alight. He was dressed all in white. His coat was white, closed, the coat of a marine officer. He wore a marine cap, but there were no marks of rank on his sleeves or shoulders. His body was straight and his chest broad. He unhesitatingly knocked on the door several times. His face was identical to Mr. Mellema's. The silver buttons on his shirt gleamed with pictures of anchors.

In bad Malay, he spoke abruptly and arrogantly, in a manner I felt straight away to be impudent and opposed to the European politeness I knew. “Where's Tuan Mellema,” he said, more an order than a question. “I only need to meet Tuan Mellema,” he said more roughly than before.

I felt again like a nyai without the right to be respected in my own home. As if I weren't a shareholder in this big business. Perhaps he thought I was sponging on Mr. Mellema. Without my help my master would never have been able to build this house, Ann. This guest did not have the right to act so arrogantly.

I did not invite him to sit down and left him standing. I ordered somebody to fetch Tuan.

Your father taught me never to read a letter or listen to a conversation with which one had no business. But this once I was suspicious. I left the door between the office and the front room open a little. I had to know who he was and what it was he wanted.

The young man was still standing when Tuan came. Through the gap left by the open door I saw your papa stand nailed to the floor. “Maurits!” Tuan greeted him. “You're already so dashing.”

At once I knew this was Engineer Maurits Mellema, the member of the team of harbor construction experts at Tanjung Perak.

He didn't answer respectfully, Ann, but corrected your Papa arrogantly. “En-gin-eer Maurits Mellema, Mr. Mellema!”

Your papa looked taken aback at receiving the correction. The guest still stood there. Your papa invited him to sit down, but he didn't respond or sit.

You must listen to this story well, Ann, you must not forget it. Not only because your grandchildren must know, but because his arrival was the source of all your and my difficulties today. And the business's.

The young Dutch guest said: “I didn't come here to sit down in this chair. There is something more important than sitting. Listen, Mr. Mellema. My mother, Mrs. Amelia Mellema-Hammers, after you left in such a cowardly manner, had to work, breaking her back to sustain me, to educate me, until I graduated as an engineer. I and Mrs.

Mellema-Hammers had resolved no longer to hope for your return, Mr. Mellema. As far as we were concerned, you had disappeared, swallowed up by the earth. We sought no reports of your whereabouts."

Through the gap in the door, the side of your papa's face was visible. He raised his hands. His lips moved but no voice came out. His cheeks trembled uncontrollably. Then his hands fell.

Ann, Engineer Mellema spoke like this:

"You, sir, left behind the accusation that Mrs. Amelia Mellema-Hammers had been unfaithful. I, her son, share her feelings of humiliation. You never brought this matter to court. You never gave my mother the opportunity to defend herself and her honor. Who knows to whom else you have passed on or told your dirty accusations. By coincidence I'm now serving in Surabaya, Mr. Mellema. By coincidence also I read in an auction paper an advertisement offering dairy goods and milk produced by Boer-derij Buitenzorg with your name displayed. I hired a detective to find out who you were. Yes, H. Mellema was Herman Mellema, the husband of my mother. Mrs. Amelia Mellema-Hammers could have married again and lived happily. But you, sir, left the matter hanging." “She could have gone to the court any time she liked if she wanted a divorce,” answered your papa very weakly, frightened of his own son, who'd become so wild.

"Why should it be Mrs. Mellema-Hammers when it was you who made the accusations? If you really believe my mother was unfaithful, why don't you, sir, file for divorce right now." “If it had been me that took the case to court, your mother would have lost all her rights over my dairy business in Holland.” “Don't give us all these ifs and buts, Mr. Mellema. The fact is that you never took the case to court. Mrs. Mellema-Hammers became the victim of your ifs and buts." “If your mother had not objected to opening up the scandal to the public, I would have done something long ago, and without your advice.” “In those days my mother could not afford to hire lawyers. Now her son is ready and able; yes, even to hire the most expensive. You can open the case. You're also rich enough to hire them, and wealthy enough to pay alimony.”

Ann, it was now clear. Engineer Mellema was none other than your papa's only legitimate son from his legitimate wife. He came as a destroyer to ruin our lives.

I trembled as I heard all this. Clerk Sastroto and his wife were never allowed to disturb my children's lives; neither was Paiman. Nor would a change in attitude by Mr. Mellema, should he ever change—or even a change by any one of my children. The family and business had to remain as they were. Now there came your stepbrother, who didn't want just to disturb our lives. He came attacking, aiming to ruin everything.

Up until that time I hadn't said anything. Unable to bear hearing what was being said, I came out to cool down the atmosphere. Naturally I had to help Tuan. “The detective gave me a very detailed and trustworthy account of things,” he continued, ignoring my presence. “I know what is in every room of this house, how many workers you have, how many cattle, how many hectares of paddy and how many tons of other crops you get from your fields, how much is your annual income, how much is in your bank account. And the most fantastic thing in all this concerns the foundation of your way of life, Mr. Mellema, you who accused Mrs. Amelia Mellema-Hammers of unfaithfulness. What's the reality now? Legally, sir, you are still the husband of my mother. But you have gone ahead and taken a Native woman as your bedmate, not for one or two days, but for years! Night and day.

Without a legitimate marriage. You, sir, have been responsible for the birth of two bastard children!"

On hearing that, my blood rose to my head. My lips trembled, dry. My teeth ground together. I stepped slowly towards him and was ready to claw at his face. He had insulted all that I had secured, looked after, striven after, and had loved all this time. “Words that are only fit to be heard in the house of Mellema-Hammers and her son!” I retorted in Dutch.

He wasn't even prepared to look at me, Ann. To him I was no more than a piece of firewood. As far as he was concerned, I had committed sin with his father and his father had committed sin with me. Perhaps it was his right and the right of the whole world to make such a judgment. But that your papa and I had cheated on this woman Amelia, whom I'd never known, and her child . . . that was the height of his vulgar impudence. And it was happening in the house we ourselves had worked for and built, in our own home. “You have no right to talk about my family,” I roared in Dutch. “I have no business with you, Nyai,” he answered in Malay, pronounced very coarsely and stiffly. He refused to look at me again. “This is my house. You can speak like that out on the street, not here.”

I signaled to your father that Maurits should go, but he didn't understand. Meanwhile this impudent man continued to ignore me. Your papa just stood there open-mouthed, like somebody who'd lost his senses. And it turned out later that indeed he had lost his mind. “Mr. Mellema.” Maurits spoke again in Dutch, still ignoring me. “Even if you married this nyai, this concubine, in a legal marriage, she is still not Christian. She's an unbeliever! And even if she were Christian, you, sir, are still more rotten than Amelia Mellema-Hammers, more rotten than all the rottenness you accused my mother of. You, sir, have committed a blood sin, a crime against blood! Mixing Christian European blood with colored, Native, unbeliever's blood! A sin never to be forgiven!" “Go!” I roared. He still ignored me. “Disturbing people's homes. You say you're an engineer, but you have no manners at all.”

He still ignored me. I moved forward a step and he moved back half a step, as if to show his disgust at being approached by a Native. Then he spoke to his father again. “Mr. Mellema, you now know what you really are.”

He turned his back on us, descended the steps, got into the carriage. He did not glance back or say another word.

Your papa still stood nailed to the floor, in a state of stupefaction. “So this is the child you had with your legal wife,” I shouted at Tuan. “So this is the European civilization about which you've been teaching me all these years? You've been glorifying to the heavens? Night and day? Checking into people's private lives and homes, insulting them, so as to come and blackmail them? Blackmail? What else if not to blackmail? Why else does one investigate the affairs of other people?”

Ann, Tuan didn't hear my shouting. His eyeballs moved, but he gazed unblinking at the main road. I shouted at him again. He still didn't hear. Several workers came running up wanting to know what had happened. When they saw me berating Tuan so furiously, they all ran away.

I pulled at him and I scratched his chest. He was silent, and he didn't feel anything. But the hurt in my heart went amok, striking out looking for a target. I didn't know what he was thinking. Perhaps he was remembering his wife. How my heart hurt, Ann, especially because he didn't want to know about the pain I was suffering in this bosom of mine.

Tired of pulling and scratching, I began to cry. I collapsed, sitting down exhausted, like old clothes dropped on a chair. I lay my wet face down on the table.

When I was an young student, I was a student who had been an student who had been an From that moment on, Ann, my respect for him vanished. His teachings about self-respect and honor had become a kingdom within me. He was no better than Sastrotomo and his wife. If that was all he was able to do when faced with such a little test as this, then even without him, I could still look after my children, could still do everything myself. How my heart hurt, Ann; it's impossible that I could ever feel a greater pain as long as I live.

When I lifted my head, I saw him still standing there without blinking, stupefied, looking out towards the main road. Did he look at me, his life-friend and foremost helper? No, he didn't. He coughed, took a step, very slowly. He called out slowly, as if afraid of being heard by the devils and demons:

“Maurits! Maurits!”

He walked down the stairs, crossed the front yard. When he reached the main road, he turned right, towards Surabaya. He was not wearing shoes; he was in field clothes, wearing sandals.

Your papa didn't come home that day. I didn't care. I was still preoccupied attending to my pain. He didn't return home that night either. The next morning—still no sign. Three days and nights, Ann. During all that time the tears drenching my pillow were to no avail.

Darsam looked after everything. On the third day, he summoned up the courage to knock on the door. It was you, Ann, who opened the door and brought him upstairs. I never dreamed he'd dare come up. My hurt and sadness at once exploded into anger: How dare he come upstairs! Then it came to me: Perhaps he thought there was something more important than my pain and sadness. The door wasn't locked. It was you, Ann, who opened it. Perhaps you've forgotten it all now. That was the first and last time he came upstairs.

Darsam spoke like this:

“Nyai, except for the reading and writing, Darsam has looked after everything.” He spoke in Madurese. I didn't answer. I wasn't thinking about the business. I was still lying on the bed, hugging my pillow. “Nyai shouldn't worry. Everything is fixed. You can trust Darsam, Nyai.”

And it turned out he could indeed be trusted.

On the fourth day I went out from the house and garden. I took you from school. This business, the fruit of our efforts, must not collapse, must not be wasted. It was everything; upon it, our lives rode. It was my first child, Ann, your eldest brother, this business. (Having finished telling her story, Mama wept and sobbed, feeling over again the pain of her humiliation, a humiliation she could neither answer nor revenge. After the crying died-away, she resumed.)

You know yourself how many people—fifteen—I dismissed. It was they who had sold information to Maurits for small change. Perhaps they weren't even paid anything. And I must ask your forgiveness too, Ann. Your papa and I had agreed to send you to school in Europe, where you could study to be a teacher. I felt I sinned greatly when I took you from school. I've forced you to work so hard, long before you were old enough, to work every day, without holidays, without friend or comrade, because you mustn't have any, for the business's sake. I have made you learn to be a good employer. And employers may not become friends with their employees. You mustn't be influenced by them. What can one do, Ann?

After the arrival of Engineer Mellema, tremendous changes had occurred. I knew about Papa without anyone telling me. On the seventh day he returned. The strange thing was that he wore clean clothes and new shoes. That was in the evening, after the workday was over. Mama, Robert and I, were sitting at the front of the house. And Papa came. “Don't speak to him. Don't greet him,” Mama ordered.

The closer Papa came the more visible was his pale, cleanly shaven face. His hair was now parted in the middle. The odor of hair oil, never used at home, excited our nostrils. Also the smell of strong drink mixed with spices. He passed us without a remark or a glance, went up the steps, disappeared inside.

Suddenly Robert stood up and, with eyes popping out, stared at Mama and frowned angrily: “My papa is not a Native!” He ran calling after Papa.

I looked at Mama. And Mama was looking at me. She said slowly: “If you like, you may follow your brother's example.” “No, Mama,” I exclaimed and I hugged her neck. “I only follow Mama, I'm a Native too, like Mama.”

Mas, that's our true situation. I don't know if you're going to despise us like my brother, Robert, and Engineer Maurits, my stepbrother.

Who knows what Papa did in the house. We didn't know. All the rooms upstairs and downstairs were locked.

After a quarter of an hour he came out again. This time he looked at Mama and me. He offered no greeting. Behind him followed Robert. Papa left the yard again, descended to the main road, and disappeared. Robert came back to the house with a gloomy face, disappointed because Papa had ignored him.

I've hardly ever seen Papa since that event five years ago. Sometimes he appears, not saying anything, and then leaves, not saying anything. Mama refused to look for him or look after him.

Mama forbade me too to look for him. We were even forbidden to talk about him. Papa's portraits were taken down from the walls by Darsam and Mama ordered that they be burned in the yard in front of the whole household and all the workers. Perhaps that was how Mama let go of her feelings of revenge.

At first Robert was just silent. Only after Papa's portraits were burned did he protest. He ran inside the house, took down Mama's portraits, and burned them himself in the kitchen. “He can join his father,” Mama said to Darsam.

And the fighter passed on Mama's words to Robert, adding: “Whoever dares disturb Nyai and Noni, I don't care if it's you yourself, Sinyo Robert, he will die under my machete. Sinyo can try if he likes, now, tomorrow, or whenever. And if Sinyo tries to find Tuan ...

Two months after all this, Robert graduated from E.L.S. He never reported it to Mama, and Mama didn't care either. He wandered about everywhere. A silent enmity has continued between Mama and Robert till this day. Five years.

At first Robert sold anything he could lay his hands on, from the warehouse, kitchen, house, office. He kept the money for himself. Mama got rid of every worker who took orders from him to steal. Then Mama forbade Robert from entering anywhere other than his own room and the dining room.

Five years passed, Mas. Five years. And there appeared two guests: Robert Suurhof for my brother, and Minke for me and Mama. Yes, you, Mas, no one else but you.

After I had been living for five days in that luxurious house at Wonokromo, Robert Mellema invited me to his room.

I entered warily. There was more furniture there than in my room. There was a desk with a glass top. Underneath the glass top was a big picture of a freighter, the Caribou, a ship flying the English flag.

He seemed friendly. His eyes were wild, a bit red. His clothes were clean and smelled of cheap perfume. His hair shone with pomade and was parted on the left. He was a handsome youth, tall, agile, fit, strong, and polite, and he looked as if he was always thinking. It was only his brown, marblelike eyes with their stealthy glances and his curled-up lips that really put me on edge. With just the two of us there I felt very uneasy. “Minke,” he began, “it looks as if you like living here. You're a school friend of Robert Suurhof, aren't you? In the same class at the H.B.S.?” I nodded suspiciously.

We sat on chairs, facing each other. “I should have gone to H.B.S. too, and would have already graduated by now.”

"Why didn't you go on?" “That was Mama's responsibility, and Mama didn't do it.” “Pity. Perhaps you never asked her.” “No need to ask. It was her responsibility.” “Maybe Mama thought you didn't want to go on.” “There's no use in supposing about fate, Minke. This is my situation now. I'm outdone by you, Minke, you, just a Native— an H.B.S. student. But what's the point of talking about school?” He was silent a moment, examining me with his chocolate eyes. “I want to ask how you come to be staying here? It seems you like it here too. Because of Annelies?” “Yes, Rob, because your sister is here. Also because I was asked.”

He cleared his throat as I scanned his face. “You've got objections perhaps?” I asked. “You like my sister?” he asked in return. “Yes.” “What a pity you're only a Native.” “It's a crime to be a Native?”

He cleared his throat once again, looking for words. His eyes wandered outside the window. I took the chance to check out his room more closely.

His bed had no mosquito net. In a hole in the floor there stood a bottle with the remnants of a mosquito coil in its neck. Around the bottle were scattered ashes. The room hadn't been swept yet.

I stopped inspecting the hole when I heard his voice again. “This house is too quiet for me,” he said. “Do you like playing chess?” “Unfortunately no, Rob.”

"Yes, a pity. Do you hunt? Let's go hunting." “I am sorry, Rob, but I need the time to study. Actually, I like hunting too. Perhaps some other time?” “Good, another time.” He looked piercingly into my eyes. I knew there was a threat in that look. He dropped the palm of his right hand to his thigh. “How about if we go for a walk?”

"It's a pity, Rob, but I have to study."

We were both silent for quite a while. He stood up and closed the door. My eyes groped around seeking something to talk about while remaining ever vigilant, ready for every possibility. The window caught my attention. If he suddenly attacked me, that's where I'd run and jump out. Especially as below it there was a bench without any flowerpots.

On the other chair, the one Robert wasn't sitting on, lay a squashed, folded-up magazine. It looked as if it had been used as a prop for a cupboard or table leg. “You don't have anything to read?” I asked. He sat in his chair again and answered with a voiceless laugh. His teeth were white, well looked after and gleaming. “You mean by something to read, that paper?” His eyes pointed to the folded-up magazine. “I've had a look through it.”

He picked it up and gave it to me. At that moment I was unsure if he wasn't about to do something. His eyes pierced my heart and I shivered. It was a magazine. Its cover was damaged, yet I could still read part of its name: 'Indi. greater than . “A magazine for lazy people,” he said sharply. “Read it if you like. Take it.”

From the paper and ink, you could tell it was a recent edition. “What do you want to be when you've graduated from H.B.S.?” he suddenly asked. “Robert Suurhof says you'll be a bupati.” “It's not true. I don't want to be an official. I prefer being free, as I am now. And anyway, who'd make me a bupati? And you yourself Rob?” I asked in return. “I don't like this house. I don't like this country either. Too hot. I like the snow better. This country is too hot. I'll go home to Europe. Sail. Travel the world. As soon as I board my first ship, I'll tattoo my chest and arms.” “That'd be great,” I said. “I'd like to see other countries too.” “The same. So we could sail around the world together. You and me, Minke. We could make a plan, yes? It's a pity you're a Native. Look at the picture of this ship. A friend gave it to me.” His spirits picked up. “He was a sailor on the Caribou. I met him by coincidence at Tanjung Perak. Spoke a lot, mainly about Canada. I was ready to join him. He wouldn't let me. 'What's the point in you becoming a sailor. You're the son of a wealthy man. Stay at home. You could buy your own ship if you wanted to.'” He gazed at me with dreaming eyes. “That was two years ago.

And he's never put in at Perak again. Hasn't sent any letters either. Perhaps he's drowned.” “Maybe Mama won't allow you to go,” I said. “Who'll look after this big business.” “I'm an adult,” he hissed, “with the right to decide for myself. But I'm still unsure. I don't know why.” “It's better you talk it over with Mama first.” He shook his head. “Or with Papa,” I suggested.

"A pity." He sighed deeply. “I've never seen you talk with Mama. Perhaps it'd be all right if I told her?” “No. Thank you. I hear from Suurhof you're a bit of a crocodile with the ladies.”

I felt my face pound as my blood galloped through my veins.

I knew at once I'd got to his sensitive spot. Now his true intentions were being revealed. “Everyone has been judged good or bad by a third party at some time or other. Equally, on the other hand, everyone has passed judgment on other people too. I have. You have. Suurhof has,” I said. “Me? No,” he answered firmly. “I've never cared about what other people say or do. Especially not about what people say of you. And even less so about what they say of me. But Suurhof said: Be careful of that filthy Native Minke, a 'low-class crocodile.'” “He's right, everybody has a duty to be careful. Suurhof too. Nor am I any less careful of you, Rob.” “Look, I've never dreamed of sleeping in another person's house because of a woman. Even if I had been invited.” “I've already told you, I like your sister. Mama asked me to stay here.” “Good. As long as you know it wasn't me that invited you.” “I fully understand, Rob. I've still got Mama's letter.” “Let me read it.”

"It's for me, Rob, not for you. A pity."

As time went on, his attitude and his voice increasingly showed his hatred. He was trying to frighten me. “I don't know if you will marry my sister in the end or not. It seems Mama and Annelies like you. Even so, you must remember, I'm the male and the eldest child in this family.”

He stammered and carefully scratched his head, afraid of messing up his hair. “I know, you also know, all the people here are against me. Everyone ignores me. All this is not without its cause. Now you arrive. You're with them, no doubt. I stand alone here. It's best you never forget what a person standing alone can do,” he said threateningly, with smiling lips. “Yes, Rob, and don't forget your own words either, because they're directed at yourself as well.” His eyes now dreamily gazed at me as he took the measure of my strength, and I followed his example, also smiling. I followed all his movements. At the slightest indication of a suspicious move, I'd be up and out the window. He would no longer find me in the room. “Good,” he said nodding. “And don't you forget either, you're only a Native.” “Oh, I'll certainly always remember that, Rob. Don't worry. Don't you forget either, in your veins runs Native blood too. I'm indeed not an Indo, not a Mixed-Blood European; but while I'm studying at European schools, there's European knowledge and learning inside me too, if it's European things that you value so much.” “You're clever, Minke, fit to be an H.B.S. student.”

That short conversation felt as if it had gone on tensely for hours. Then I realized it had lasted only ten minutes. Luckily Annelies called from outside, and I excused myself.

Catching me entirely by surprise, Robert, still sitting, said calmly: “Go, your nyai is looking for you.”

I stopped at the door and looked at him in astonishment. He only smiled. “She's your sister, Rob. You shouldn't talk like that. I too have my honor …”

Annejies hurriedly pulled me away to the back room as if something important had occurred there. We sat on the thick-cushioned sofa. The cover had a floral pattern on a cream base. She clung to me and whispered. “Don't see too much of Robert, let alone go into his room. I worry. Each day he changes more. Twice now Mama has refused to pay his debts, Mas.” “Do you have to be enemies with your own brother?” “It's not that. He must work to earn his living. He could if he wanted to. But he doesn't want to.” “Yes, but why must you two be enemies.” “It doesn't come from my side. Mama is right in everything. He doesn't want to acknowledge that Mama is right just because she is a Native. So what must I do?”

I didn't press her further. But I thought to myself then: What was that handsome youth getting from this family? From his mother nothing, from his father nothing. Let alone his sister. Neither sympathy nor love. I come to his home, and he's jealous of me. It's only natural. “Why don't you try to be the peacemaker, Ann?” “What for? He's gone too far, made me curse him.”

"Curse him? You've cursed him?" “I don't want to even look at his face. Before I was still prepared to be good to him. Now, for as long as I live—never. Never, Mas.”

I regretted having tried to interfere. And her face, which all of a sudden reddened, showed her anger.

Nyai joined us. She had a copy of the Surabaya Daily News in her hand. She pointed out to me a short story, “Een Buitenge-woon Gewoone Nyai die Ik ken,” (“An Extraordinary Ordinary Nyai That I knew”). “Yes, Mama, at school.” “I think I recognize the person described in this story.” Perhaps I went pale on hearing her words. Although the title had been changed, that was my own writing, my first short story published in other than an auction paper. A few words and sentences had been improved, but it was still my work. The material wasn't from Annelies, but my own imaginings based on Mama's day-to-day life.

"Who's the author, Mama?" I asked, pretending. “Max Tollenaar. Is it true you only write advertisements?” Before the conversation became involved I quickly confessed: “Yes, I wrote it, Ma.” “I thought so. You're indeed clever, Nyo. Not one in a hundred people can write like that. Though if you mean me in that story ..” “I based my imaginings on Mama,” I answered quickly. “I see. It's not surprising then that there are a lot of incorrect things in it. As a story it's indeed good, Nyo. Let's hope you become a writer, like Victor Hugo.”

And I was embarrassed to ask who Victor Hugo was. And she could praise the strengths of a story. When did she ever study story-writing? Or is it all just pretense? “Have you read Francis? G. Francis?”

I felt truly at a loss. I'd never heard of him either. “It seems Sinyo never reads Malay.” “Malay books, Mama? Are there such things?” “It's a pity you don't know. He's written many Malay books. I think he's a Pure or a Mixed-Blood, not a Native. It would be a real pity, Nyo, if you never read any of his books.”

She spoke still more about the world of fiction. And the more she spoke, the more I doubted her. She might be just parroting everything ever taught to her by Herman Mellema. My teachers taught us quite a lot about Dutch language and literature. They had never touched on the things that she was discussing. And my favorite teacher, Miss Magda Peters, must know more than any nyai. This nyai was even trying to talk about literary language as well! “Francis wrote Nyai Dasima, a truly European-style novel. But in Malay. I've got the book. Perhaps you'd like to study it.” I mechanically replied yes. What did she know about the literary world? And why did she want to read stories, interfere in the affairs of the imaginary characters of the world of writers, even commenting on the language they used, while under her own eyes her own son Robert was neglected? It gave me cause to have doubts.

As if she could read my thoughts, she said: “Perhaps you want to write about Robert too.” “Why, Mama?” “Because of your youth. You'll want to write, of course, about the people you know around you. Who interest you. Who excite your sympathy or antipathy. I think Rob will certainly attract your attention.”

Luckily that rather unpleasant conversation was soon followed by dinner. Robert didn't join us. Both Mama and Annelies were not surprised, nor did they inquire after him. The servant didn't ask any questions either.

In the middle of dinner I was about to tell them of Robert's desire to become a sailor, to go home to Europe. At that moment Nyai spoke instead. “Write, Nyo, always about humanity, humanity's life, not humanity's death. Yes, whether it's animals, ogres, gods, or ghosts that you present, there's nothing more difficult to understand than humanity. That's why there is no end to the telling of stories on this earth. Every day there are more. I don't know a lot about this myself. But once I read something that said, more or less, the following:

Do not underestimate the human being, who sometimes appears so simple. Even with sight as sharp as an eagle, a mind as sharp as a razor, senses more powerful than the gods, hearing that can catch the music and the lamentations of life, your knowledge of humanity will never be total.

Mama had stopped eating altogether. The spoon with its load still hovered in midair under her chin. “It's true that during the last ten years I've read more fiction. It's as if every book is concerned with people's efforts and striving to escape or overcome some difficulty. Stories about happy things are never interesting. They are not stories about people and their lives, but about heaven, and clearly do not take place on this earth of ours.”

Mama resumed eating. I had concentrated all my attention in order to catch every one of her words. At that time she was really an unofficial teacher whose lessons were delivered officially enough.

After dinner she resumed:

“Because of all this, you are no doubt interested in Robert. He always seeks trouble and then can't get out of it. I think, if I'm not wrong, that's what's called tragic. The same as his father. Perhaps through your writings—if he was willing to read them—he could see himself as in a mirror. Perhaps he could change his ways. Who knows? Only, I ask, before you publish them, let me see them first. Of course, that's if you don't mind. You never know but that there might be some false impressions or assumptions that could be avoided.” ^{1}

¥

As it happened I was indeed working on a piece about Robert. Nyai's warning rather startled me. It was if her eagle eyes saw my every move. I also felt that she was invading my privacy as a storyteller. The publication of my first story had raised my spirits. But the enthusiasm that success had generated could not now spur on my writings about Robert. Mama, with her eagle eyes, had blocked that progress in the middle of its journey.

The discussion at dinner made me submerge myself in reflections. It was clear that she had read a great deal. Probably Mr. Herman Mellema was a truly wise and patient teacher. Nyai was a good pupil, and she had the ability to develop herself, after having obtained some capital in the form of understanding from her master. What I can't obtain from school, I will harvest in the midst of this concubine's family. Who would ever have guessed? Perhaps, too, she does understand Robert Mellema better than I can. What she had said about the Native-hating youth pointed to a deep compassion for her eldest child.

I still didn't know much about that tall youth. Perhaps he too read a lot, like his mother. The magazine he gave me turned out to be no ordinary magazine but a copy of a well-known scholarly historical journal. It could have come from Mama's library, or have been taken from the postman and not handed over to Mama. Maybe, too, he hadn't finished reading it either. I don't know for sure. All the articles in it were about the Netherlands Indies. One among them was about Japan's relations—whether they are limited or extensive—with the Indies.

That article greatly enriched my notes about Japan—a country that had been very much discussed during those preceding few months. None of my school friends had paid any attention to that country even though it had been touched upon in discussions at school. My friends still did not consider Japan as worthy of discussion. They offhandedly equated Japan with the prostitutes who filled up the Kembang Jepun, and with the little cafes, restaurants, and barber shops, with the hawker and his goods. None of these reflected the Japan that was challenging modern science and learning.

In one discussion, when my teacher, Mr. Lastendienst, tried to get the students interested, most just chatted lazily to each other. He said that Japan was also experiencing a flowering in the field of science. Kitazato had discovered the plague bacteria, Shiga had discovered dysentery bacteria—and in that manner Japan, too, had been of service to humanity. He compared it with the Dutch nation's contribution to civilization. Seeing that I was fully engaged in the subject and was taking notes, Mr. Lastendienst asked me in an accusing tone of voice, "Eh, Minke, the Javanese delegate in this room, what has your nation contributed to humanity?" I would not have been alone in being so startled to hear that sudden question; in all likelihood all the gods in the chest of the shadow play puppet-master would have exhausted their energy just to answer. So the best way of getting out of my difficulty was to utter the following sentence: "Yes, Mr. Lastendienst, I can't answer at this time." And my teacher reacted to this with a sweet smile—very sweet.

That's just a little from my notes about Japan. Now with the articles in the magazine Robert gave me, my notes had been supplemented by quite a bit of extra information about the current developments in Japan and the struggle over its defense strategy.

I didn't understand much about those things. Precisely because of that I noted it all down. At the very least it would be excellent material for use in a school discussion.

It said there had been competition between the Japanese Army and Navy. A maritime defense strategy was then chosen. And the army, with its centuries-old samurai tradition, was dissatisfied.

And the Indies itself? In the article it said the Netherlands Indies has no navy, only an army. Japan is made up of islands. The Netherlands Indies is just a great string of them. Why does Japan emphasize naval defense while the Indies emphasize the land? Isn't the problem of defense (against the outside) the same? Didn't the Indies fall into the hands of the English a hundred years ago precisely because of the weakness of the Indies Navy? Why hasn't that lesson been learned?

The warships that sailed back and forth in Indies waters did not belong to the Netherlands Indies but to the Kingdom of the Netherlands. Governor-General Daendels had made Surabaya a naval base in a period when he had not a single ship! Almost a hundred years later still no one gave any thought to the Indies having its own navy. The honorable gentlemen in charge put their trust in the British naval defenses of Singapore and the American naval defenses of the Philippines.

The article speculated about war with Japan. In what kind of position would the Indies be with its undefended waterways? While the Royal Dutch Navy carried out only irregular patrols? Could not the experience of 1811, when the Indies fell into British hands, be repeated once again to Holland's loss?

I don't know whether Robert ever read and studied the article. Seeing that he wanted to travel the world as a sailor, perhaps he had read it. And as someone who believed in European superiority, he would no doubt put his faith in the white race. The article also said that Japan was trying to imitate the English on the seas. And the writer warned people that they should stop insulting the Japanese by calling them imitating monkeys. At the beginning of all growth, everything imitates. All of us, when we were children, also only imitated. But children grow up and begin their own development.

And the same theme occurred in a conversation between Jean Marais and Telinga that I once overhead, and I noted it down like this:

Jean Marais: Roles shift from one generation to another, from one nation to another. Previously, colored peoples conquered the white peoples. Now the white peoples conquered the colored peoples.

Telinga: The whites had never been beaten in three centuries by coloreds. Three centuries! Indeed it could happen that one white people could conquer another white people. But a colored people could never conquer whites. Not in the next five centuries. Not ever.

And Robert wanted to become a sailor, a European. He dreamed of sailing on the Caribou, under the flag of England—a country of no great size, with a sun that never set.

It felt as if I hadn't been asleep for long. Nervous knocking on the door jolted me awake.

"Minke, wake up." It was Nyai's voice.

I found Mama standing at the door, carrying a candle. Her hair was a bit of a mess. In the morning darkness the tick-tock of the pendulum clock reigned over the room. “What's the time, Mama?”

"Four. Someone is looking for you."

A person was sitting on the settee in the gloom. The closer Mama's candle came, the clearer the person became: a police officer! He stood up out of respect, then immediately spoke in Malay but with a Javanese accent: “Tuan Minke?” “Yes.” “I have an order to take Tuan with me. Straight away.” He held out a letter. What he said was true. It was a summons from the police station at B--------, a town near the town of my birth, approved by the police station at Surabaya. My name" was clearly stated there. Mama too had read it.

"What have you been up to, Nyo?" she asked. “Not a thing,” I answered nervously. Yet I began to have doubts about my own actions. I searched and searched my memory; I lined up everything I'd done over the last week. I repeated, “Not a thing, Mama.”

Annelies came. She wore a long, black-velvet gown. Her hair was a mess. She was still bleary-eyed.

Mama approached me: “The officer hasn't said what you've been charged with. It's not in the summons either.” And to the police officer: “He has the right to know what is the matter.” “I have no such orders, Nyai. If it is not stated clearly in the summons, then indeed no one may be told, including the person involved.” “It can't be done like that,” I retorted. “I'm a Raden Mas, I can't be treated in this way,” and I waited for an answer. Seeing that he didn't know how he should answer, I resumed, “I have {forum privilegiatum} , the right to be tried under the same laws and in the courts of the Dutch.” “No one can deny that, Tuan Raden Mas Minke.”

"Why are you doing things in this manner?" “My orders are only to fetch Tuan. Even the person who issued the orders would not know anything more, Tuan Raden Mas,” he said, defending himself. “Please get ready, Tuan. We must leave quickly. We must be at our destination by five o'clock this afternoon.” “He won't say,” I answered briefly. “Ann, fix Minke's clothes and bring them here,” ordered Nyai, “Who knows how long they will detain him. He can bathe and breakfast first, can't he?” “Of course, Nyai, there's still a little time.”

He allowed half an hour.

I found Robert watching the event from his room at the back. A yawn was his only greeting. Once in the bathroom, I began to mull over the possibilities: Robert is the cause of this trouble, passing on false and fanciful reports. He didn't appear for dinner last night or the night before. One by one his threats came back to me. All right, if it's true you are the one who has caused all this disturbance, I will never forget you, Rob.

On my return to the front room I found coffee and cakes ready. The police officer was enjoying his breakfast. He looked more polite after receiving his food. And he didn't appear to have any personal enmity towards us. On the contrary, he chatted to us, laughing all the time: “Nothing bad is going to happen, Nyai,” he said finally. “Tuan Raden Mas Minke will return, at the very latest, within the next two weeks.” “It's not a matter of two weeks or a month. He's been arrested in my house. I have a right to know what it's all about,” pressed Nyai. “Really, I don't know. Forgive me. That's why I'm fetching him so early in the morning, Nyai, so no one will know.” “So no one will know? How? You had to meet with my watchman before getting to see me, didn't you?” “Then arrange so that your watchman doesn't talk.” “That's a good idea. Nyai will get an explanation quickly. And it will surely be a truthful one.”

Annelies, who was standing holding my suitcase, approached me, unable to speak. She put the suitcase and bag down. She grabbed hold of my hand and held it. Her hand trembled. “Breakfast first, Tuan Raden Mas,” the officer reminded me. “Maybe there won't be any breakfast as good as this at the police station. No? Then let's leave now.” “I'll be back soon, Ann, Mama. There must be some mistake. Believe me.”

And Annelies wouldn't let go of my hand.

The police officer picked up my things and carried them outside. Annelies gripped my hand tightly as I followed* him out. I kissed her on the cheek and freed myself of her hold. And she still didn't speak.

"Hopefully all will be well, Nyo," Nyai prayed. "That's enough now, Ann; pray for his safety."

The carriage that awaited us proved not to be a police carriage but a hired one. We climbed aboard and left in the direction of Surabaya. The officer was taking me to B------. And in the early morning dark I conjured up in my mind all the buildings I'd ever seen in B-. Which one among them was our destination? The police station? The jail? An inn? It didn't even occur to me to think of private houses.

Our carriage made up the only traffic on the road. Oil wagons, which usually started moving out of the D.P.M. refinery at dawn, twenty or thirty in a row, were not yet to be seen. One or two people were carting vegetables on their backs for sale in Surabaya. And the agent kept his mouth closed as if he'd never, in all his life, learned to speak.

Maybe it was true that Robert had slandered me. But why was B----our destination?

Our oil lamps were reluctant to pierce the darkness of the misty early morning. It was as if only I, the policeman, the driver, and the horse were alive upon that road. And I imagined Annelies crying unconsoled. And Nyai confused, concerned that my arrest would give her business a bad name. And Robert Mellema would have reason to cackle: See! Isn't it true what Suurhof said?

The carriage took us to the Surabaya police station. I was invited to sit down and wait in the reception room. I wanted very much to ask questions about my case. But I got the impression that in the misty, early-morning air no one was in the mood to give explanations. So I didn't ask. And the carriage still waited in front of the police station. The officer just left me there alone with no orders.

It was a long time. The sun still hadn't risen. And when it did rise, it was unable to dispel the mist. Those gray particles of water reigned over everything, even the inside of my lungs. The traffic in front of the police station was beginning to get busy: carriages, carts, pedestrians, hawkers, workers. And I still sat alone in the waiting room. Finally, at a quarter to nine, the police officer appeared. He looked as if he'd had an hour's sleep and had had ajiot bath. He looked fresh. On the other hand, I felt weary, exhausted by waiting. And still I had no chance to inquire. “Let's go, Tuan Raden Mas,” he invited, in a friendly man-ner. We climbed back aboard the carriage and headed off to the railway station. Once again it was he who carried my bags, and unloaded them and escorted me to the ticket window. He pushed a letter inside and obtained two tickets—first class. This was not the time for the express train. We were traveling on a slow train too. Yes, it was true, we climbed aboard that boring train on the western line. I'd never been on a train such as this. I always went by express if there was one. Except, yes, except from B--------to my own town T_ _ The officer returned to his state of muteness. I sat next to the window. He sat facing me.

There were just a few passengers in the carriage. Besides the two of us, there were three European men and a Chinese man. They all seemed bored. At the first stop two passengers got off, including the Chinese man. No new passengers came aboard.

I'd traveled that distance dozens of times. So there was nothing in the sights along the journey that interested me. In B1 usually stayed at an inn until the next morning, when I would continue the journey on to T------. This time I wouldn't be head ing towards my usual inn. Most probably I would end up at the police station.

The view became more and more dreary: barren land, sometimes gray, sometimes a whitish-yellow. I fell asleep with a hungry stomach. Whatever was going to happen, let it. Ah! This earth of mankind. Sometimes a tobacco plantation would appear, shrink, and disappear, swept away in the train's acceleration. Appear again, shrink again, disappear again. And paddy fields and paddy fields and paddy fields, unirrigated, planted with crops, but no rice, almost ready to be harvested. And the train crawled on slowly, spouting thick black and dusty and sparkling smoke. Why wasn't it England that controlled all this? Why Holland? And Japan? What about Japan?

The touch of the police officer's hand woke me. Laid out beside me were the things he'd brought with him: the wrapping cloth was opened out as a kind of tablecloth. On it was fried rice shining with oil, adorned by a fried egg and fried chicken, plus a"spoon and fork, all in a banana-leaf container. Perhaps it had been specially prepared for me. An agent would think twice about serving food like this for himself—it was too sumptuous. A white bottle containing chocolate milk—a drink not yet widely known by Natives—stood beside the banana-leaf container.

And that gloomy town, B--------, finally, as the time ap proached five o'clock in the afternoon, appeared before our eyes. The agent still didn't speak. But again he carried my bags. And I didn't stop him. What was the significance of a police officer, first-class, compared with an H.B.S. student? At the most he might have been able to read and write a little Javanese and Malay.

A carriage took us away from the station. To where? I knew those white, rocky streets that were such an eyesore. Not to the hotel, not to my regular inn. Also not to the B--------police station.

The town square looked deserted with its brownish grass carpet, balding and tattered in places. Where was I being taken? The hired carriage headed for the bupati's residence and stopped a distance from its stone gate. What was the link between my case and the bupati of B----? My mind began groping around madly.

And the police officer alighted first, looking after my bags as before. “Please,” he said suddenly in high Javanese.

I accompanied him into the regency office situated diagonally across from the bupati's residence. An office stripped of wall ornaments, devoid of appropriate furniture, without a single occupant. All the furniture was rough, made from teak, and unvarnished, with the appearance of not having been measured for need and without any plan of use, just thrown together. Coming from the luxurious house in Wonokromo into this room was like making a visit to a produce house. It was, you might say, just slightly more luxurious than Annelies's chicken coop. This, presumably, was the interrogation room. Just some tables, a few chairs, and some long benches. On the other side, there were shelves on which were piles of papers and several books. There were no instruments of torture. Just ink bottles on all the tables.

The police officer left me by myself again. And for the second time I waited and waited. The sun had set. He still didn't appear. The grand mosque's drum began its beating, followed by that sad call to prayer. The street lanterns were being lit by the lamp men. The office became darker. And those demonic mosquitoes, they ganged up and attacked the room's only occupant. The insolence!

I swore. Is this how people treat a raden mas and an H.B.S. student too? An educated person with the blood of the kings of Java running in him?

And I could feel my clothes sticking to my body. And my body was starting to stink of sweat. I'd never experienced such maltreatment as this. “A thousand pardons, Ndoro Raden Mas.” The officer invited me to leave the mosquito-filled, dark office. “Allow your servant to escort you to the visitors' gallery.”

Once again he carried my bags.

So I'm being brought before the bupati of B--------! God!

What's it all about? And must I, an H.B.S. student, cringe in front of him and at the end of every one of my sentences, make obeisance to someone I don't even know? As I walked along the path to the visitors' gallery, already lit up by four lamps, I felt like crying. What's the point in studying European science and learning, mixing with Europeans, if in the end one has to cringe anyway, slide along like a snail, and worship some little king who is probably illiterate to boot. God, God! To have audience with a bupati is to be an object of humiliation without being able to defend oneself. I'd never forced anyone to act like that towards me. Why did I have to do so for others? Thundering damnation!

Ah, see, it's true? The agent was already inviting me—the impudence!—to take off my shoes and socks. The beginning of a great tyranny. Some supernatural power forced me to follow his orders. The floor felt cold under my bare soles. He signaled me and I went, step by step, to the top. He pointed out to me the place where I must sit, eyes towards the floor, before a rocking chair. One of my teachers had once said: The rocking chair is the most beautiful thing left behind by the Dutch East Indies Company after its bankruptcy. Oho! Oh rocking chair, you will be a witness to how I must humiliate myself in order to glorify some bupati I don't even know. Damn! What would my friends say if they saw me traveling on my knees like this, like someone without thighs, crawling towards the relic of the company at the time it approached bankruptcy—that unmoving chair near the wall of the visitors' gallery. “Yes, walk on your knees, Ndoro Raden Mas.” The officer was herding a buffalo into a mudhole.

And I covered the almost ten meters distance while swearing in three languages.

To my left and right clam-shell ornaments were spread out. And the floor shone from the rays of light from four oil lamps. Truly, my friends would ridicule me if they could see this play, where a human being, who normally walks on his two whole legs, on his own feet, now has to walk with only half his legs, aided by his two hands. Ya Allah! You, my ancestors, you: What is the reason you created customs that would so humiliate your own descendants? You never once gave it any thought, you, my ancestors who indulged in these excesses! Your descendants could have been honored without such humiliation! How could you bring yourself to leave such customs as a legacy?

I stopped in front of the rocking chair. I sat, legs tucked under and eyes towards the floor, as custom decreed. All I could see was a low, carved bench and on top of it, a foot-rest cushion of black velvet. The same velvet as Annelies's dressing gown earlier that morning.

Good, now I had sat down cross-legged before that damned rocking chair. What business did I have with the bupati of B--------?

None. Neither kith nor kin, not an acquaintance, let alone a friend. And for how much longer would this oppression and humiliation continue? Waiting and waiting while being oppressed and humiliated in this way?

I heard the creaking of a swinging door as it opened. Then, as the seconds passed, the sound of footsteps made by leather slippers became clearer. And I remembered the scraping footsteps of Mr. Mellema on that other frightening night. From where I was seated, the striding slippers slowly began to come into view. Above them a pair of clean legs. Still further above a widely pleated batik sarong.

I raised my hands, clasped in obeisance, as I had seen the court employees do before my grandfather, and my grandmother, and my parents at the end of Ramadan. And I did not now withdraw my pose until the bupati had sat himself comfortably in his place. In making such obeisance it felt as if all the learning and science I had studied year after year was lost. Lost was the beauty of the world as promised by science's progress. Lost was the enthusiasm of my teachers in greeting the bright future of humanity. And who knows how many times I'd have to make such obeisances that night. Obeisance—the lauding of ancestors and persons of authority by humbling and abasing oneself! Level with the ground if possible! I will not allow my descendants to go through such degradation!

This person, the bupati of B------, cleared his throat. Then slowly he sat down on the rocking chair, kicking off his slippers behind the foot bench, and placed his honorable feet on the velvet cushion. The chair began to rock a little. Damn! How slowly time passed. Some object, by my reckoning fairly long, gently tapped upon my uncovered head. How insolent was this being that I must honor. And every tap I must greet with a sign of grateful obeisance.

After five taps, the object was withdrawn, and was now hung beside the bupati's chair: a horse whip made from a bull's genitals, with a shaft of thin, choice leather. “You!” he addressed me weakly, hoarsely. “Yes, I, my master, Honored Lord Bupati,” said my mouth, and like a machine my hands were raised in obeisance for the umpteenth time and my heart cursed for I don't know how many times now. “You! Why have you only come now?” His voice now emerged more clearly from his throat, which was suffering the end of a bout of influenza.

It felt as if I had heard that voice before. It was also his cold which prevented me from recalling the voice easily. No, no, it could not be him! Impossible! No! I still didn't know what this was all about, so I kept silent. “The honored government does not run a postal service for nothing—capable of getting my letters safely to you at the proper and exact address.”

Yes, it was his voice. Impossible! It couldn't be! Impossible. I was just guessing. “Why are you silent? Now that your schooling is so advanced, is it that you feel humiliated to have to read my letters?” Yes, it was his voice! I raised my hands in obeisance once again, deliberately lifting my head a little and taking a peep. Ya Allah! It was indeed he.

"A thousand pardons, my father: no." “Your mother's letter, and why didn't you answer that either?”

"My father, a thousand pardons..." “And the letter from your elder brother?”

"Forgive me, my father, a thousand pardons, I was not there.

I'm no longer at that address, forgive me, a thousand pardons." “So you were educated as high as a coconut tree'e to learn to deceive?”

"A thousand pardons, my father." “You think we're all blind, ignorant of the date you moved to Wonokromo? And do not know that you took with you all our letters still unread?”

The horse whip made from bull's genitals swayed to and fro. The hairs on my back crawled, ready to receive the whip as it fell upon me, as a rebellious horse. “Do you still need to be humiliated in public with this whip?” “Humiliate me with the horse whip in public,” I answered recklessly, unable to stand such tyranny. “But it would be an honor if that order were to come from a father,” I continued, still more recklessly. And I would show the same attitude as Mama did to Robert, Herman Mellema, Sastrotomo, and his wife. “Crocodile!” he hissed angrily. “I took you out of the E.L.S.

Dutch-language primary school at T-----for the same reason. As young as that! The higher your schooling, the more you turn into a crocodile! Bored of playing around with girls of your own age, you're now holing up with a nyai's nest. What do you want to become of you?"

I kept silent. Only my heart shouted in anger: So you insult me thus, blood of kings! Husband of my mother! Good, I will not answer. Come on, keep going, continue, blood of the kings of Java! Yesterday you were just an irrigation official. Now all of a sudden you are a bupati, a little king. Strike me with your whip, king, you who know not that science and learning have opened a new era on this earth of mankind! “Prepared by your grandfather to be a bupati, to be honored by all people, the cleverest child in the family . . . the cleverest in the town . . . yes, God, what will become of this child!”

Good, come on, continue, little king! “The only grounds for forgiving you are because you've passed and gone up a class.”

I can go on up to eleventh class! I roared inside my breast, offended. Come on, let fly with your ignorance, little king. “Don't you think it's dangerous to take up with a nyai? If her master goes into a rage and you're shot dead by him, or perhaps attacked with a dagger, or a sword, or a kitchen knife, or strangled . . . how will it be? The papers will announce who you are, who your parents are. What sort of shame will you bring upon your parents? If you haven't thought things through as far as that.

Like Mama, I was ready to leave all my family, I roared louder inside, a family that burdens me with nothing but bonds that enslave,! Come on, continue, blood of the kings of Java!

Continue! I too can explode. “Haven't you read in the papers that tomorrow night your father is celebrating his appointment as a bupati? Bupati of B-----?

Mr. Assistant Resident of B-, Mr. Resident of Surabaya, Mr.

Controller, and all the neighboring bupatis will be present. It is possible an H.B.S. student doesn't read the newspapers? If not, is it possible nobody else told you about it? Your nyai, can't she read the papers for you?"

Indeed the civil service reports were something that never attracted my interest: appointments, dismissals, transfers, pensions. Nothing to do with me. The world of priyayi, Javanese aristocrats who became administrators for the Dutch colonial bureaucracy, was not my world. Who cared if the devil was appointed smallpox official or was sacked dishonorably because of embezzlement? My world was not rank and position, wages and embezzlement. My world was this earth of mankind and its problems. “Listen, you renegade!” he ordered, a newly important official whose spirits were now aroused. “You've become absent-minded, looking after someone else's nyai. You've forgotten your parents, your duties as a child. Perhaps you're indeed ready to take a wife. All right, another time we'll discuss it. Now there is another matter. Pay attention. Tomorrow night you will act as interpreter. Don't shame me and the family in public before the resident, assistant resident, controller, and neighboring bupdtis.” “Yes, my father.” “You're able and ready to be interpreter?” “Able and ready, my father.” “Ah, that's better, once in a while please your parents' hearts.. I'd begun to worry that Mr. Controller would be carrying out that task. Imagine how it would look at a party to celebrate my appointment, with all the important officials as witnesses, if there was a son missing? When should they start becoming acquainted with you? This will be the best opportunity. It's a pity you're such a renegade. Perhaps you don't understand that your parents are clearing the way to a high position for you. You, a son, glorified as the cleverest in the family. Or perhaps you're more inclined towards the nyai than towards rank?" “This is how your road to high rank will be clear.” “Yes, my father.”

"There, go to your mother. You indeed did not intend to return home. It was so shameful, having to ask the help of my assistant resident. You're happy, aren't you, being arrested like an unpracticed thief? No sense of shame at all. Go kneel before your mother, though I know you're resolved to forget her. Sever your relations with that nyai who doesn't know when she's already well off!"

Naturally, I did not answer. I just made the sign of obeisance again. Then, walking on half legs, assisted by my hands, I crawled off, carrying the burden of my indignation on my back, like a snail. Destination: the place I had taken off my shoes and socks, the place where this accursed experience began. There were no Natives in the bupati's building wearing shoes. With my shoes in my hands I walked alongside the visitors' gallery, entering the inner courtyard. The gloomy lanterns showed the way to the kitchen. I collapsed into a broken-down lounge chair, ignoring the things I was carrying.

Someone came to have a look. I pretended not to notice. I was served a cup of black coffee, which I gulped down.

If my elder brother hadn't turned up, perhaps I would have fallen asleep. Putting on a vicious countenance, he spoke to me in Dutch. “It seems you've forgotten politeness too, and so have not gone quickly to kneel before Mother?”

I rose and accompanied him, a S.I.B.A. student, a future Netherlands Indies civil servant. He kept frowning as if he were the guardian whose job it was to ensure the sky wouldn't fall in and smash up the earth. Because his Dutch was limited, he resumed in Javanese his lecture about how I was a child who no longer knew proper custom. I, of course, didn't respond. We entered the bupati's building, passing by several doors. Finally, in front of one door, he said: “Enter there, you!”

I knocked slowly on the door. I didn't know whose room it was, but opened it and entered. Mother was sitting in front of the mirror combing her hair. A tall oil lamp stood on a stand beside her.

"Mother, forgive me," I said, kneeling down before her and kissing her knees. I don't know why my heart was seized so suddenly by this longing for my mother.

"So you have come home at last, Gus. Thank God you're safe." She lifted up my chin, looked into my face, as if I were a four-year-old child. And her soft, loving voice moved me. My eyes overflowed with tears. This was my mother, just as before, my own mother. “This is Mother's wayward child,” I submitted hoarsely. “You're a man now. Your mustache is beginning to come through. People say you like a rich and beautiful nyai.” Before I could deny this, she continued, “It's up to you, if you indeed like her and she likes you. You're an adult now. You're no doubt ready to shoulder the consequences and responsibilities and not run like a criminal.” She took a breath and stroked my cheek as if I were a baby. “Gus, they say you are doing very well at school. Thanks be to God. It amazes me sometimes how your schooling can go so well while you're in the power of that nyai. Or perhaps you're truly very clever? Yes, yes, that's a male for you; all men are cats pretending to be rabbits. As rabbits they eat all the leaves, as cats they eat all the meat. All right, Gus, you must do well at school, keep advancing.”

Mother didn't fault me. I did not have to deny anything. “Men, Gus, they love to eat. Who knows if leaves or if meat? That's all right, providing you understand, Gus, the more you advance at school does not mean the more you can eat other people's food. You must be able to recognize limits. That's not too hard to understand, is it? If people don't recognize such limits, God will make them realize in His own way.”

Ah, Mother, how many pearlike words have you burned into my soul. “You're still silent, Gus. What are you going to report to your mother? My waiting is not going to be in vain, is it?”

"Next year I will graduate, Mother." “Thanks be to God, Gus. Parents can only pray. Why have you only come now? Your father was so worried, Gus, angry every day because of you. Your father was appointed bupati very, very suddenly. No one guessed it would be so fast. You, one day, will reach the same heights.. You surely must be able to. Your father only knows Javanese, you know Dutch; you are an H.B.S. student. Your father only went to a Basic People's School. You have mixed widely with the Dutch. Your father hasn't. You will surely become a bupati one day.” “No, Mother, I don't want to become a bupati.” “No? Strange. Yes, as you wish. So what do you want to become? If you graduate you can become whatever you want, of course.” “I only want to become a free human being, not given orders, not giving orders, Mother.” “Ha! Will there be a time like that, Gus? This is the first I've heard of it.”

When I was a little boy, I used to tell her excitedly about what my schoolteachers had said. This time too. About Miss Magda Peters, whose stories were so interesting, about the French Revolution, its meaning, its basic principles. Mother only laughed, not refuting anything. Just as when I was a little child. “Ugh! You're so dirty, you smell of sweat. Bathe, and with hot water! It's already so late. Rest. Tomorrow you'll be working hard. You know your duties tomorrow?”

I was not yet acquainted with the building. I went into the room prepared for me. An oil lamp was alight inside. It appeared that my brother was also in that room. He was sitting reading by the table lamp. I passed by to get my things ready. And my brother, who always exercised his rights as the firstborn, did not lift his head at all, as if I did not exist on this earth. Was he trying to impress me with his diligence as a student?

I coughed. He still showed no reaction. I glanced at what he was reading. Not printing: handwriting! And I became suspicious when I looked at the book's cover. Only I owned a book with a beautiful cover, hand-made by Jean Marais. Slowly I moved up behind him. I was not wrong: my diary. I seized it from him and I became enraged. “Don't touch this! Who gave you the right to open it? Is this what your school has taught you?”

He stood up, staring at me wide-eyed, and said, “Indeed you are no longer Javanese.” “What's the use of being Javanese only to have one's rights violated? Perhaps you don't understand that notes like that are very personal? Haven't your teachers taught you about ethics and individual rights?”

My brother was silent, observing me in a powerless anger. “Or is this indeed the practice given to trainee officials? Fiddling in other people's affairs and violating the rights of anybody they like? Aren't you taught the new civilization? Modern civilization? You want to become a king who can do as he pleases, like your ancestors' kings?”

My resentment and anger had spilled out. “And is this what the new civilization means? To insult people? To insult government officials? You yourself will become one!” he defended himself. “A government official? The person you're facing now will never become one.” “Not only tell him, with or without you, but I'm quite able even to leave behind this whole family. And you! You touch my things, violating my rights, and don't know you should apologize. Have you never been to school? Or have you indeed never been taught civilized behavior?” “Shut up! If I'd never been to school, I'd have already ordered you to crawl and make obeisance to me.” “Only a buffalo-brain would think that way about me. Illiterate.”

And Mother entered, intervening: “You meet for the first time in two years . . . why do you have to carry on like village children?” “I'll fight anyone at all who violates my individual rights, Mother, let alone just a brother.” “Mother, he has admitted all his evil doing in his diary. I was going to present it to Father. He was afraid and went amok.” “You're not yet an official with the right to sell your brother just to obtain some praise,” said Mother. “It's not certain that you are any better than he.”

I picked up my things. “It's better I return to Surabaya, Mother.” “No! You have received a task from your father.” “He can do it,” I said, looking at my brother. “Your brother is not an H.B.S. student.” “If I am needed, why am I treated like this?”

Mother ordered my brother to another room. After he had left, she resumed. “You're indeed no longer Javanese. Educated by the Dutch, you've become Dutch, a brown Dutchman, acting this way. Perhaps you've become a Christian." “Ah, Mother, don't go on so. I'm still the same son as before.”

"My son of the past wasn't a rebel like this." “Your son didn't know right and wrong then. I only rebel against that which is wrong, Mother.” “That is the sign you're no longer Javanese, not paying heed to those older, those with greater right to your respect, those who have more power.” “Mother, don't punish me this way. I respect what is closest to what is right.” “Javanese bow down in submission to those older, more powerful; this is a way to achieve nobility of character. People must have the courage to surrender, Gus. Perhaps you no longer know that song either?” “I still remember, Mother. I still read the Javanese books. But those are the misguided songs of misguided Javanese. Those who have the courage to surrender are stamped and trodden upon, Mother.” “Gus!” “Mother, I've studied at Dutch schools for over ten years now in order to find out all this. Is it proper that Mother punish me now I've found out?” “You've mixed too much with the Dutch. So now you don't like to mix with your own people, even your own family, not even with your father. You won't answer out letters. Perhaps you don't even like me anymore.” “Oh, forgive me, Mother.” Her words had struck me sharply. I dropped to the ground, kneeling before her and embraced her legs. “Don't speak like that, Mother. Don't punish me more than my errors deserve. I only know of what Javanese are ignorant, because such knowledge belongs to the Europeans, and because I indeed have learned from them.”

She twisted my ear, then knelt down, whispering: “Mother doesn't punish you. You've discovered your own way. I will not obstruct you, and will not call you back. Travel along the road you hold to be best. But don't hurt your parents, and those you think don't know everything that you know.” “I've never intended to hurt anyone, Mother.” “Ah, Gus, this is perhaps the fate of a woman. She suffers pain when giving birth, then suffers pain again because of her child's actions.” “Please! For Mother to feel pain because of my actions is excessive. Didn't Mother always tell me to study hard and well? I've done that to the full. Now Mother finds fault with me.” And as if I were still a little child she caressed my hair and cheeks. “When I was pregnant with you, I dreamed that someone I didn't know came and gave me a dagger. Since then I've known, Gus, the child in my womb held a sharp weapon. Be careful in using it, Gus. Don't you yourself become its victim.

Since early morning people had been preparing the place for the reception to celebrate my father's appointment. The news was that the best and most beautiful dancers in all the region had been hired for the occasion. Father had brought the best gamelan pure bronze orchestra from T------, my grandmother's gamelan, which was always wrapped in red velvet when not being used. Every year it was not only tuned, but bathed in flower water.

With the gamelan came an expert tuner. My father wanted not only the gamelan itself, but the harmony too, to be pure East Javanese. So since morning, the pavilion had been buzzing with the sounds of people filing things into tune.

The administrative work of the bupati's office stopped altogether. Everyone was helping Mr. Niccolo Moreno, a well-known decorator brought in from Surabaya. He brought with him a big chest of decorating tools the like of which I had never seen before. And it was then that I first realized that arranging decorations and ornamentations was a skill all of its own. Mr. Niccolo Moreno came on the recommendation of Mr. Assistant Resident B------, approved of and guaranteed by Mr. Resident Surabaya.

That morning I too had to meet him. With his own hands he took my measurements, as if he wanted to make me some clothes. Then he let me go.

He had turned the pavilion into an arena whose focus was the portrait of Queen Wilhelmina, that beautiful maiden I had once dreamed after—brought from Surabaya, the work of a German artist named Hiissenfeld. I still admired her beauty.

The Dutch tricolors were hung everywhere, singly or in twos. Tricolor ribbon also streamed out from the portrait to all parts of the pavilion, and would later captivate the audience with its authority. The pavilion's columns were painted with some new kind of paint, made from flour, that dried within two hours. Banyan-tree leaves and greenish-yellow coconut fronds in traditional color harmonies transformed the dry, barren walls into something refreshing, and impelled people to enjoy their beauty. Eyes were drawn by the play of flowers' colors; yellow, blue, red, white, and purple—a saturating beauty—flowers that in day-today life stuck separately and silently out along fences.

The big night in my father's life arrived. The gamelan had already been rumbling softly and slowly for some time. Mr. Nic-colo Moreno was busy in my room, dressing me up and adorning me. Who would have ever guessed that I, already an adult, would be dressed up by somebody else? A white person too! As if I were a maiden about to ascend the wedding throne.

All the time he was dressing me, he spoke in a strange-sounding, monotone Dutch, as if it came out of the chest of a Native. He obviously wasn't Dutch. According to his story, he often dressed and adorned the bupatis, including my father tonight, and the sultans of Sumatra and Borneo. He'd designed many of their clothes, and even now was often summoned by them. He said also that the costumes of the guards of the kings of Java were designed by him.

Silently I listened to his stories, neither affirming nor refuting them, although I didn't believe them fully either.

He had dressed me in an embroidered vest, stiff, as if made from tortoiseshell. I could never have bent over in it. The stiff leather collar dissuaded my neck from turning around. Indeed the intent was that my body should be straight and stiff, not turning around frequently, eyes straight ahead like a true gentleman. Then a batik sarong with a silver belt. The style in which the batik was worn truly brought out that dashing East Javanese character. That's what Father no doubt wanted. I suffered all this like a young maiden. A batik blangkon headdress, a mixture of East Javanese and Madurese styles, something entirely new, Niccolo Moreno's own creation, was placed upon my head. Then came a ceremonial sheathed short sword, a keris inlaid with jewels. Then a black outer upper garment like a coat with a cut at the back so the people could admire the beauty of my keris. A bow tie made my neck, usually active guiding my eyes to their targets, feel as if it were being snared. Hot perspiration began to soak my back and chest.

In the mirror I found myself looking like a victorious knight out of those stories of the legendary eleventh-century prince, Pan-ji. From under my shirt protruded velvet cloth embroidered with gold thread.

I was clearly a descendant of the knights of Java, so I too was a knight of Java. But why was it a non-Javanese who was making me so dashing? And handsome? Why a European? Perhaps an Italian? Already since Amangkurat I in the 1600s, the clothes of the kings of Java had been designed and made by Europeans, said Mr. Niccolo Moreno. I'm sorry, but your people only wore blankets before we came. Below, above, on the head, only a blanket! His words truly hurt.

Whether his story was true or not, in the mirror I did look dashing and handsome. Perhaps people would say later: “a true Javanese costume,” forgetting all the European elements in the shirt, collar, tie, and even forgetting the last and velvet made in England.

I considered my clothes and my appearance to be products of mankind's earth at the end of the nineteenth century, the time of the birth of the modern era. And I truly felt that Java and all its people were a not-too-important corner of this earth of mankind. The town of Twente in Holland now wove for the Javanese, and chose the material too. Village-woven cloth was left now only to the villagers. The Javanese were left with only batik-making. And this one body of mine—still the original!

Mr. Moreno went. And I sat down. When I became aware of the sounds of the East Javanese gamelan, which would cradle this evening's atmosphere, I awoke from my reflections, looked in the mirror again and smiled with satisfaction. In accord with custom, I would be Father's and Mother's escort as they entered the reception. My brother would lead the way, while my sisters had no public function. They would be busy out in the back. A The guests had all arrived. Father and Mother came forth. My brother was in front, I behind them. As soon as we entered the reception area in the pavilion the assistant resident of B------came up, because that was the program.

All stood in respect. Mr. Assistant Resident walked straight to Father, offered his respects, bowed to Mother, shook hands with my brother and me. Only then did he sit beside Father. The gamelan played a song of welcome, flaring up and filling the reception area and people's hearts. And the pavilion was packed with people, their faces shining with pleasure and the light of the gas lamps. Behind them in the compound, on woven mats, sat rows of village heads and village officials.

The master of ceremonies, the bupati's chief executive assistant, the path of B------, opened the program. After a moment's hesitation, the gamelan became silent, as if controlled by some supernatural power.

The Dutch national anthem, “Wilhelmus,” was sung. People stood. Very few joined in singing. Most, of course, couldn't, only one or two Natives. The others just stood gazing, perhaps swearing at that strange and aggravating melody.

Mr. Assistant Resident B------, as the representative of Mr.

Resident Surabaya, began to speak. Mr. Controller Willem Ende came forward, ready to interpret in Javanese. Mr. Assistant Resident shook his head and waved his hand to prevent it. He indicated that I should be interpreter.

For a moment I was nervous, but in a second I regained my character. No, they are no better than you! And that voice gave me courage. Carry out this task in the same way as you take on your exams!

I came to the front, forgetting to bow and stand with my hands clasped before me, according to Javanese custom. I felt as if in front of class. Wherever my eyes wandered they collided with the eyes of the bupatis. Perhaps they were admiring this Javanese knight in his half-Javanese, half-European clothes. Or perhaps they were indulging their antipathy towards me because of my not showing respect towards them.

Mr. Assistant Resident finished his speech, and I finished putting it into Javanese. He shook hands with Father. And now it was Father's turn to speak. He didn't know Dutch, but that was still better than the other bupatis, who were illiterate. He spoke in Javanese and I put it into Dutch. Now I delivered it in a totally European manner directed at Mr. Assistant Resident B-----and the Europeans in attendance. I saw Mr. Assistant Resident nodding, and observing me as if it were I who was giving the speech, or perhaps he was enjoying my act as a monkey in the middle of a crowd. Father's speech ended and so too did my translation. The senior officials stood up and congratulated Father, Mother, my brother, and me.

When Mr. Assistant Resident congratulated me he felt he had to praise my Dutch.

"Very good," then in Malay, "Tuan Bupati, Tuan must indeed be happy to have such a son as this. Not only his Dutch, but more importantly his attitude." Then he resumed in Dutch. "You are an H.B.S. student, yes? Can you come to my house tomorrow afternoon at five o'clock?"

"With pleasure, sir." “You will be picked up in a carriage.”

The congratulations did not take long. The village dignitaries didn't normally shake hands with the bupati. So Father's hand was saved from the twelve hundred or so hands of the village officials. They stayed seated on their mats out in the compound.

The gamelan resumed its tumultuous din. A full-bodied dancer entered the arena as if flying, carrying a tray, upon which was a sash. Carrying the silver tray, she made her way directly to the assistant resident. When the white official rose from his chair, she took the sash and draped it over his shoulder.

People cheered and clapped in approval. He nodded to Father, asking permission to open the tayub dance. Then the assistant resident nodded to the crowd. Unhesitatingly he stepped forward, partnered by the dancer, and moved into the center of the gathering to the crowd's applause and cheering. And he danced, his two fingers holding the corners of the sash, and at every beat of the gong he jerked his head in rhythm with the gong. And before him that full-bodied, pretty, eye-catching woman danced provocatively. / A few minutes later another dancer entered running, also gloriously pretty. With a silver tray in her hand, she entered the arena carrying liquor in a crystal glass. She took up a position beside the assistant resident and joined in dancing.

The official stopped dancing and stood up straight in front of the new dancer. He took the crystal glass and swallowed down three quarters of its contents. The glass with the remaining liquid he pressed to the lips of his dance partner, who drained it down only after trying to resist while still dancing. Then she bowed down her head in extreme embarrassment.

The gathering cheered in glee. The village chiefs and officials stood and contributed to the hubbub. “Drink it, sweetie! Drink, hoseeeee!”

That handsome dancer with her bare, firm, shining, langsat-fruit skin took the glass from the official's hands and placed it on the silver tray.

Mr. Assistant Resident nodded with pleasure, clapping gleefully, and laughed. Then he returned to his chair.

Now another dancer came and offered the sash to Father. And he danced with her beautifully. And that dance too ended with liquor from a silver tray.

Following this, the assistant resident went home. The bupatis too then went home, one by one, each in his own grand carriage. The village chiefs, district officers, police constables, charged the pavilion, and the tayub dance continued until morning with the shout of hoseeee after every swallow of liquor.

I only found out the next morning that in my bag there was a small bundle of silver coins. Wrapped in paper, with Annelies's writing: "Don't let us go for long without hearing news from you. Annelies."

The money totalled fifteen guilders, enough for a village family to live for ten months, even twenty months if their daily budget was kept at two and a half cents a day.

That morning I set off to the post office. The postmaster, I don't know his name, an Indo, shook my hand and praised my Dutch at the previous nights' reception as being excellent and very exact. All the office employees stopped working just to listen to our conversation and to take in what I looked like. “We would be very proud if you would work here; you are an H.B.S. student, yes?” “I only want to send a telegram,” I answered. “There's no bad news, I hope?” “No.”

The postmaster attended to me himself and gave me the form.

He invited me to sit at a table, and I began to write, then handed the form back to him. Once again he attended to it himself. “If you have the opportunity, perhaps we could invite you to dinner?”

It appeared that the assistant resident's invitation had become big news in B-----. It could be predicted that all the officials, white and brown, would be sending me invitations. So, all of a sudden, I'd become a prince without a principality. How tremendous, an H.B.S. student! in his last year! in the middle of an illiterate society. They will all be out to indulge me. If the assistant resident has started inviting you, naturally you are without flaw, everything you do is right, there is nothing you would ever do that could be said to have violated Javanese custom.

That prediction didn't have long to wait before it was verified. As I left that small office I surveyed the whole area. Everyone bowed in respect. Perhaps among them there were some already sizing me up for their son-in-law or a brother-in-law. “Imagine: an H.B.S. student.” And it was true. On arrival back at home I found several letters had already arrived, all written in Javanese script, all invitations!

I didn't know one of the people inviting me. My guess remained the same: They were all thinking of themselves as my future parents or brothers-in-law. “Imagine: the son of a bupati, himself considered to be a future bupati, an H.B.S. student, final year. As young as that and he's already been noticed by an assistant resident. He even defeated the controller!”

B------! A gray corner on this earth of mankind! I spent the whole morning writing apologetic replies: I am unable to accept your invitation because I must return quickly to Surabaya.

And that afternoon the promised carriage arrived to pick me up. I wore European clothes, as was my usual way in Surabaya, even though Mother didn't approve.

It seemed that the neviHs about my invitation had spread throughout all B------. People needed to see me cover that short distance between the bupati building and the assistant-residency building. Unfamiliar people in neat Javanese dress, but with naked feet, bowed in respect. Those wearing hats over their blangkon headdresses needed to raise them.

The carriage took me straight to the back of the assistant residency building, stopping at the veranda.

The assistant resident rose from his garden chair, as too did the two young women beside him. He got in his greeting first. “This is my eldest daughter,” he introduced her, “Sarah. This is my youngest daughter, Miriam. Both are H.B.S. graduates. The youngest went to the same school as you, before you, though, of course. Well, excuse, me, I have some unexpected work to do," and he went.

So this was what the honored invitation rocking B------was all about. I'm introduced to his daughters and then he goes.

Probably Sarah and Miriam were older than I. And every H.B.S. student knew with certainty: Seniors seek every opportunity to put on airs, to strike a pose, to insult and to topple upside-down any poor junior.

You be careful now, Minke. See, Sarah is starting: “Is Miriam's Dutch language and literature teacher, Mr. Mahler, still teaching? That crazy, talkative one?” “He's been replaced by Miss Magda Peters,” I answered. “No doubt more talkative still and with only a kitchen vocabulary,” she followed on. “Do you know for sure that she is a Miss?” asked Miriam.

"Everyone calls her Miss."

And Miriam giggled. Then Sarah too. Truly, I didn't know what they were laughing about.

I answered hotheadedly and recklessly: “I think she has more than just a kitchen vocabulary. She is my cleverest teacher, the one of whom I'm most fond.”

Now they both laughed, giggling, while covering their mouths with their handkerchiefs. I was confused, not knowing what was so funny. For a moment I saw shining glances coming from my left and right. “Fond of a teacher?” teased Miriam. “There has never been a Dutch language and literature teacher whom people have liked.

Castor oil dispensers, all of them. What do you get from her?" "She can cleverly explain the Dutch eighties style and compare it with the contemporary style." “Oho!” cried Sarah. “If that's the case, try declaring one of Kloos's poems, so we can see if your teacher really is so great.” “She is clever in explaining the sociological and psychological background of the works of the eighties,” I continued. “Very interesting.” “What do you mean by psychological and social background?”

Sarah and Miriam burst into a fit of giggling again.

Now I was beginning to become annoyed with their giggling. I moved across to the assistant resident's chair to avoid their glances. Now I faced them directly. And they came over as Pure-Blooded girls who were adroit and not at all unattractive. Yet a junior could never relax his vigilance with seniors. “If you do indeed require an explanation of that,” I continued, putting on a serious countenance, “we would need to look at actual literary texts.”

Seeing me get more and more into a corner, their giggling escalated and they glanced at each other knowingly. “Come on, when has there been a Dutch language and literature teacher who talked about social and psychological background? It sounds a lot of hot air to me! What does she want to become, this Miss Magda Peters? At the most she'd be able to present the Dutch Eighties Generation writers who barked at the sky destroyed by the factory smoke, the fields blasted by the din of traffic, under assault by roads and railway lines.” Miriam, who was more aggressive, attacked. “If she wants to discuss social background she shouldn't be talking about that sentimental generation, she should be talking about the writer Multatuli. . . and the Indies!” “Yes, that's when you're really talking about noble literature, where mud has fostered the growth of the water lily.” “She's also spoken about Multatuli,” I answered resolutely. “Ah, come on, how could Multatuli be discussed in school?

Stick to the truth. He has never been mentioned in any textbook. "Miriam continued her attack. “Miriam's right,” Sarah confirmed. “If one wants to talk about social background, Multatuli is indeed a typical example.” Then she glanced at her sister.

"Miss Magda Peters not only put Multatuli forward as a typical example. She went so far as to elucidate his writings." “Elucidate them!” cried Sarah disbelievingly. “An H.B.S. teacher in the Indies elucidating Multatuli! Could that happen in the next ten years, Miriam?” Miriam shook her head in disbelief. “Or have you changed your textbooks?” “No.”

"Your teacher is truly puffed up. You're only her pupil," Sarah tormented me. “No.” “Then your teacher is really daring. If what you say is true, she could get into trouble.” Miriam began to get serious.

"Why?" “How simple you are. So you don't know. And you need to and indeed are obliged to know.” Miriam continued. “Because if what you say about your teacher is true, maybe she is from the radical group.” “There's nothing wrong with the radicals, is there? They're bringing progress to the Indies.” By this time I felt really stupid. “But good doesn't necessarily mean right, and progress might not yet be appropriate. It could come at the wrong time and place!” pressed Miriam.

Sarah cleared her throat. She didn't speak. “Come on, tell us which of his writings she is enthusiastic about?”

They were becoming more and more annoying. And a junior, I don't know who started the rule, must always show respect. So: “The main work is of course Max Havelaar or De Kojfie-veilingen der Nederlandsche Handelsmaatschappy—The Coffee Auctions of the Netherlands Trading Company.” “And who do you think Multatuli is?” Now Sarah was launching an assault on me. “Who? Eduard Douwes Dekker.” “Excellent. You must also know of the other Douwes Dekker. That's obligatory.” Sarah continued her attack.

This mad senior was getting worse and worse. And why was she attacking me like this, glancing at her sister too, lips trembling as she held back her laughter? They're playing out a drama, playing around with a Native slave. They were going too far. There was only one Douwes Dekker known to history. “So you don't know,” Sarah said insultingly. “Or you're in doubt?”

Miriam burst into a fit of uncontrolled giggling.

Very well, I would confront this satanic conspiracy. So this was the value of the honored and sensational invitation from the assistant resident. Very well, because I didn't know, I answered as reasonably as possible. “I only know of Eduard Douwes Dekker, whose pen name is Multatuli. If there is any other Douwes Dekker I truly don't know of him.” “Indeed, there is,” Sarah resumed again. Miriam hid her face in a silk handkerchief. “But more importantly, who is he? Don't be confused, don't go pale,” she teased. “You know, don't you, you're just pretending not to know.” “I truly don't know,” I answered impatiently. “Then your teacher Miss Magda Peters, whom you so greatly praise, has insufficient general knowledge. Listen, and remember not to shame your seniors. Don't forget this. The other Douwes Dekker, who is more important than Multatuli, is a youth ...” “He's still a youth?” “Of course he's still a youth. He's on board a ship. Or perhaps he's already in South Africa, fighting with the Dutch against the British. Have you heard of him?” “No. What has he written?” I asked humbly. “He's still a youth. So he can, of course, be forgiven if he hasn't yet written anything,” answered Sarah, then she too giggled. “So why should I know about him?” I protested. “People become known because of their works.” Now I was getting the chance to defend myself. “Hundreds of millions of people on this earth have not produced works that would have made them famous, so they are not famous.” “Actually he's produced a lot of writings too. But there's only one reader. Here she is, that most faithful of all readers: Miriam de la Croix. He is her boyfriend, understand?”

I swore in my heart. What have I got to do with him if he's only Miriam's boyfriend? These two wouldn't know who Anne-lies Mellema was either. I'd bet on it! “Come on, Mir, tell us about your boyfriend,” coaxed Sarah in high spirits. “No.” Miriam refused. “It's not anything to do with our guest. Let's talk about something else. You're a pure Native, aren't you Minke?” I was silent, not answering. I felt that, without knocking, they were about to open the door of humiliation. “A Native who has obtained European education. Very good. And you already know so much about Europe. Perhaps you d superscript An't know as much about your own country. Perhaps. True? I'm not wrong, am I?”

The humiliation has now begun, I thought. “Your ancestors,” Miriam de la Croix continued, “—I'm sorry, it's not my intention to insult anyone—your ancestors, generation after generation, have believed that thunder is the explosion caused by the angels trying to capture the devil. It's so, yes? Why are you silent? Are you ashamed of your own ancestors' beliefs?”

Sarah de la Croix had stopped laughing. She put on a serious face, and observed me as if I were some mysterious animal. “There's no need to single out my ancestors,” I answered her. “Your European and Dutch ancestors in prehistoric times were no less ignorant.” “Ah,” Sarah intervened, “just as I suspected. You two are going to fight about your ancestors.” “Yes, we're like cattle, Minke,” Miriam continued. “Fight at our first meeting, but be friends afterwards, perhaps forever. That's right, yes?”.

A very adroit girl! My suspicions began to subside. “My ancestors may have been more stupid than your ancestors, Minke. Your ancestors were building paddy fields and irrigation systems when mine were still living in caves. But that's not what we want to discuss. Look, at school you're taught that thunder is only the clash of positive and negative clouds. Benjamin Franklin is now even able to build a lightning rod. Yes? While your ancestors have a beautiful legend—the story that I have heard—about Ki Ageng Sela, who was able to capture the thunder and then lock it up in a chicken coop."

Sarah burst into laughter. Miriam became even more serious, observing my face as twilight reached its climax. Then she let fly her puzzle: “I believe you can accept the teachings about positive and negative clouds because you need the marks to pass. But be honest, do you believe in the truth of this explanation?”

Now I knew that she was testing my inner character. Yes, a real test. To be frank, I'd never asked myself such a question. Everything had just seemed to flow smoothly, requiring no questioning.

Now Sarah interfered: “Of course I believe that you know and have mastered this natural science lesson. But now the problem is: Do you believe it or not?” “I must believe it,” I answered. “Must believe it only because you've got to pass the exams. Must! So you don't yet believe.” “My teacher, Miss Magda Peters ...”

"Magda Peters again," cut in Sarah.

"She is my teacher. According to her, everything comes from being taught," I answered, "and from practice. Even beliefs. You two would not ever have come to believe in Jesus Christ without being taught and then practicing to believe." “Yes, yes, perhaps your teacher is right.” Sarah was confused.

Miriam, on the other hand, watched me as if she were looking at her lover's portrait. "This year we've begun hearing a new word: modern. Do you know what it means?" The aggressive Miriam began again, forgetting all about the question of thunder. “I know. But only from Miss Magda Peters.” “It seems you don't have any other teachers,” interrupted Sarah. “What's to be done? It's she who can answer your question.” “Then what does this fantastic teacher of yours mean by {modem} ” Miriam cut in. “It isn't in the dictionary. But according to this fantastic teacher of mine it is the name for a spirit, an attitude, a way of looking at things that emphasizes the qualities of scholarship, aesthetics, and efficiency. I don't know any other explanation. She is a member of the schismatic group in the Catholic Church that's been expelled by the Pope. Perhaps there's another explanation?”

I asked finally.

Sarah and Miriam stared at each other. I couldn't see their faces clearly. Twilight had arrived, though it had seemed ages in coming. And now they just sat silently, exchanging looks, and they began busily to eliminate mosquitoes getting overfriendly with their skin. “These mosquitoes!” Sarah frowned. “They think I'm a restaurant.”

Now it was I who burst into laughter. “Ah, we've forgotten our drinks,” said Sarah. “Please!”

And the tension began to subside. I began to breathe freely again. And I remembered the servant dressed in white who had put the glasses and cakes on the garden table a while ago. For the first time I smiled to myself. Not only because the tension was subsiding, but because I knew that they knew no more than I did. “Do you know who Dr. Snouck Hurgronje is?” Once again Miriam attacked.

If the assistant resident turned up now, I would be saved from this torment. Where are you, my savior? Why don't you appear? And these children of yours are no less fierce than the twilight mosquitoes. Or did you deliberately invite me here so that your daughters, my seniors, could do me in? These thoughts suddenly made me understand: The assistant resident was deliberately confronting me with his two daughters as a test. He probably had some specific purpose in mind. “How about if I have a turn asking a question now?”

Sarah and Miriam burst into laughter again. “Just a minute,” forbade Miriam. “Answer first. Your beloved teacher is indeed extraordinary. You, her student, are no less extraordinary. It's only natural you're so fond of her. Perhaps I also would be as fond of her as you are. Now, about my last question, perhaps your beloved teacher has spoken about him too.” “A pity, but no,” I answered briefly. “Tell me.”

It appeared she had long awaited this opportunity to come forward as a teacher. Skillfully, she told this story:

Dr. Snouck Hurgronje was a jewel of a scholar—daring to think, daring to act, daring to risk himself for the advancement of knowledge—and was an important adviser in ensuring a Dutch victory in the Aceh war. It's a pity he was now involved in an argument with General Van Heutz. An argument about Aceh. What's the meaning of this argument? There isn't any, said Miriam. The important thing is that he has undertaken a valuable experiment with three Native youths. The purpose: to find out if Natives are able truly to understand and bring to life within themselves European learning and science. The three students are going to a European school. He interviews them every week to try to find out if there is any change in their inner character and whether they are able to absorb it all, whether their scientific knowledge and learning from school is only a thin, dry, easily shattered coating on the surface, or something that has really taken root. This scholar has not yet come to a decision.

Now it was I who laughed again. These two misses were aping the scholar. And I was the guinea pig caught by them along the side of the road. Incredible! But they might be doing it on their father's orders, which were probably not ill-intended, so I restrained my desire to launch a counterattack. I continued listening to Miriam's story. Not as a junior, nor as a student—but as an observer.

All was still and calm. Sarah did not speak. Then: “Have you heard about the Association Theory?” “Miss Miriam, you are now my teacher,” I answered quickly, avoiding the question. “No, not a teacher,” she said with a sudden humility. “These days it's only normal that there should be an exchange of views between educated people. Yes, isn't that right? So you've never heard about it?”

"Not yet." “Very well. This theory comes from that scholar. A new theory. His idea is that if the experiment succeeds, the Netherlands Indies government could put his theory into practice. That's right, isn't it, Sarah?”

"Tell it yourself," said Sarah, avoiding the question. “Association means direct cooperation, based on European ways, between European officials and educated Natives. Those of you who have advanced would be invited to join together with us in governing the Indies. So the responsibility would no longer be the burden of the white race alone. So there would no longer be a need for the position of the controller as a liaison between Native and white administrations. The bupatis could cooperate directly with the white government. Do you understand?” “Keep going,” I said. “What's your opinion?” “Very simple,” I answered. “We Natives have read what you have not read: our chronicle Babad Tanah Jawi. Reading and writing Javanese has long been something our families have studied. Look, in E.L.S. and H.B.S. we are taught to admire the Indies Army's brilliance in subjugating us, the Natives.” “The Indies Army is indeed outstanding. That's a fact.” Miriam defended her nation. “Yes, indeed, it's a fact. Do you know that the chronicles written by the Natives tell of how we withstood your attacks for centuries?” “But were always defeated?” charged Miriam. “Yes, indeed, always defeated.” Suddenly the courage to continue my words disappeared. Instead I came out with a question: “Why didn't you come up with this theory three centuries ago? When no Native would have had any objection to Europeans sharing responsibility with them?” “I don't quite understand what you mean?” interrupted Sarah. “I mean, this fantastic scholar, Doctor . . . what's his name again? . . . he's three hundred years behind the Natives of that time,” I answered proudly.

Father and Mother were very proud that I had received an invitation from Assistant Resident Herbert de la Croix.

Invitations from local Native notables continued to arrive at our house.

It was better that my parents didn't know how their son, of whom they were so proud, was made to look a fool.

With all my might I resisted their demands that I tell them what had happened. Instead, I announced that I would quickly be returning to Surabaya.

I was busy replying to all the invitations.

My father was no longer angry with me. The-invitation from the assistant resident absolved me of all my sins.

I had telegraphed Wonokromo, giving them the day and time of my return to Surabaya, and asking that I be met at the station by a carriage.

Father and Mother weren't able, and perhaps also didn't feel it proper, to delay my departure. There were no further accusations relating to the issue of Nyai Ontosoroh. Someone who had received an invitation from the assistant resident was immediately immune; it was impossible for him to have done wrong. On the contrary it was as if a sign had appeared over the gateway to his future proclaiming the certainty of his attainment of a high and important position. But they did insist I take leave of and say goodbye to the European official.

I didn't want to go but left for his house anyway. Once again I had to meet with Sarah and Miriam de la Croix. It turned out that when around their father they were not aggressive, but instead orderly and polite. “Your school director used to be my school friend,” said the official. “When you get back to school, pass on my greetings and respects.”

Then he explained that his children wanted to go home to the Netherlands. They ha:d been without a mother for the last ten years. If they went, he would be very lonely. Because of that: “Write to me often about how you're getting on. I will be very happy to read your letters. And correspond with Sarah and Miriam too,” he requested. “These days people should exchange views, shouldn't they? Who knows, perhaps such discussions could turn out to be the foundation for a better life later on? Especially if you all become important people!”

I promised I would write. “Minke, if you maintain your present attitude, I mean your European attitude, not a slavish attitude like most Javanese, perhaps one day you will be an important person. You can become a leader, a pioneer, an example to your race. You, as an educated person, surely understand that your people have fallen very low, humiliatingly low. Europeans can no longer do anything to help. The Natives themselves must begin to do something.”

His words hurt. Yes, every time the essence of Java was insulted, offended by outsiders, my feelings were also hurt. I felt so totally Javanese. But when the ignorance and stupidity of Java was mentioned, I felt European. So these messages, which had brought me so many thoughts, I took with me in my heart on the train back to Surabaya.

If Mr. de la Croix had been Javanese, it would have been easy to guess his intention: He wanted me as a son-in-law. But he was a European, so that was impossible, especially as both Sarah and Miriam were several years older than I. The colonial official hoped I would become a leader, a pioneer, an example to my people. Like in a fairy tale! Nothing like this was ever mentioned in the tales of my ancestors. Is it possible that there could be a European who truly desired such a thing? In the history of the Indies no such thing had ever occurred. The Dutch Army had never rested its rifles and cannons for a single moment during their three hundred years in the Indies. Suddenly there was a European who wanted me to become a leader, a pioneer, and an example to my people. An uninteresting fairy story. An unfunny joke. It appeared he wanted to make me a guinea pig in an experiment to test the Association Theory of Dr. Snouck Hurgronje. To the devil with it all! Nothing to do with me. It's lucky I liked to make notes, so I had a treasury that at every moment could supply me with guidelines and warnings.

I groped in my suitcase to find and read those letters that I had still not yet read. It was true, they told of the plan for a reception for the investiture of Father, and ordered and requested that I come home quickly. With my brother's letter there was even a note to my school director requesting leave.

Suddenly, on the train, I noticed a fat man with rather slanted eyes, watching only me. His clothes were made from brown drill, both his shirt and his trousers. His shoes were brown too—shoes that were normal for first-class carriages. His hat, made from felt, with a silk hatband, never left his head, but was sometimes lowered to cover his forehead in order to give him the freedom to look around the carriage as he liked. His baggage consisted of a small leather case that had been placed on the rack over his head. And he sat on the bench over there, on the other side. When the conductor was checking the tickets, Fatso handed over his white ticket, but his eyes glanced across at me.

Between B-----and Surabaya there were only a few places where the express train stopped. And Fatso didn't get off, nor were there any signs he was getting ready to do so. He was obviously heading for the last station. "Stop!" I thought to myself. I'm not going to take any notice of him. I want to enjoy this trip, as if it were a holiday. I wanted to sleep deeply. I needed my strength and health.

The train hissed on rapidly towards Surabaya. By five in the evening Surabaya rattled under our wheels. The train shot past the cemetery and stopped at the station. The platform looked deserted. Just a few people were standing or sitting, waiting or walking back and forth. “Ann! Annelies!” I called from my window. She was there to meet me.

Annelies ran to my carriage, stopped below it, and put out her hand.

"Everything's all right, Mas?" she asked.

Fatso passed me carrying his little case. He alighted first, looked briefly at Annelies, then slowly walked towards the station exit. I followed him with my eyes. He didn't go out, but stopped and glanced back at us. “Come on, get out. What else are you waiting for?” coaxed Annelies.

I alighted. The coolie followed, carrying my baggage. “Come on, Darsam has been waiting for a long time.”

Fatso still hadn't gone out through the platform gate, so we ended up passing by him. His skin was clear, the color of langsat fruit, his face reddish. Every few moments he wiped his neck with a blue handkerchief, just as he had done in the carriage. As soon as we passed him, he moved as if he wanted to follow us. “Greetings, Young Master!” called Darsam from beside the cart. (Mama had told him he was not to call me Sinyo.)

Fatso watched us as we climbed up into the carriage. Now I really began to be suspicious. Who was he? Why hadn't he gone yet, why was he still watching us? And as soon as we boarded, he hurriedly rented a carriage. As soon as our cart moved, his carriage set off. It was obvious he was following us.

When I glanced back at his carriage, he was wiping his neck. He was not paying any attention to us. The second time I looked, he was looking at us. “Hey! Darsam! Why aren't you turning right?” I protested. “Why to the left, Darsam?” asked Annelies in Madurese. “I've got a little business,” he answered briefly.

The carriage turned left away from the station square, then to the right, passing the green field in front of the residency building. And where was Darsam off to? And he looked so serious.

"Why aren't you turning right again?" protested Annelies. "It's already evening." “Patience, Non, it's not dark yet. A lantern has been prepared. Don't worry.”

And it was turning out that Fatso's carriage was indeed following our cart. When, for the umpteenth time, I glanced back he bent down, sheltering his face behind the driver's back.

"Slow down a little, Darsam," I ordered.

The cart entered into a low-class street, traveling slowly. The carriage behind us also slowed down. It had to—the street was too narrow. The carriage could have rung its bell if it wanted us to move over. But it didn't. Nor did it try to overtake us.

All of a sudden our cart stopped. “Why here?” protested Annelies. “Just a moment, Non. I have a little business,” answered Darsam, jumping down and guiding the horse to the side of the road, tying the reins to a fence post.

Fatso's carriage hesitated to pass, but in the end it had no choice. The passenger himself turned the other way while blowing his nose with his blue handkerchief. He didn't look Chinese, or like a Mixed-Blood Chinese, nor like a merchant. Anyway, if he was a Mixed-Blood Chinese, he was probably an educated one, perhaps an employee at the office of the Majoor der Chinezen—the Dutch-installed leader of the local Chinese community? Or perhaps a Mixed-Blood European-Chinese returning from holidays to his workplace in Surabaya? He was clearly not a merchant. They weren't the clothes of a trader. Or perhaps he was a cashier at one of the "Big Five" Dutch trading companies—Borsumij or Geowehrij? Or perhaps he was the Majoor der Chinezen himself? But the majoors were always arrogant, considering themselves equals with Europeans, and so wouldn't take any notice of me, or any other Native for that matter. Or perhaps he was interested in Annelies? No. This had been going on since I left B. “Non, wait here a moment. Darsam has a little business in this food stall,” said Darsam. With his eyes directed at me, he continued, “Young Master, could you come down for a moment?”

I climbed down. Vigilantly, of course. We entered the cafe, a bamboo shack with a tiled roof. “What's going on there?” asked Annelies suspiciously, from the top of the cart.

Darsam glanced back, answering: “Since when hasn't Noni trusted Darsam?”

I was also becoming suspicious. Fatso and his carriage had stopped some way down the road. Now it was Darsam who was up to something. “Stay there, Ann,” I said to calm her. Yet I felt my eyes following the hands and machete of the Madurese fighter.

There was only one customer drinking coffee in the stall. He didn't look up when we entered. It looked as if he was daydreaming. Or pretending not to notice? Or an ally too of Fatso, like Darsam perhaps?

In the manner of giving an order he invited me to take a seat on the long bench across from the other customer. He sat so close to me that I could hear his breathing and smell his sweat.

"Take some tea and cake to the carriage outside," Darsam instructed the stall woman. His eyes scrutinized her sharply until she took the food out on a wooden tray.

His eyes shone wildly as he brought his curly mustache up close to me, and whispered in heavy and awkward Javanese: “Young Master, something has happened at the house. Only I know. Noni and Nyai don't. Young Master mustn't be startled. For the moment Young Master mustn't stay at Wonokromo. It's dangerous.” “What's the matter, Darsam?”

Now his voice was calmer: “Darsam is loyal only to Nyai, Young Master. Whoever is loved by Nyai is loved by Darsam. Whatever she orders, Darsam carries out. I don't care what sort of order it is. Nyai has ordered me to look after Young Master, so I will do it. Young Master's safety is now my work. You don't need to believe everything I say, Young Master, but at least take my advice.” “I understand your task. Thank you for being so conscientious. But what has happened?” “Nyai is my employer. Noni is my employer too, but only number two. Now Noni is in love with Young Master. Darsam must also make sure that nothing happens to you. So I pass on this advice. Not because Darsam's machete can't guarantee your safety. No, Young Master. There is still something not yet clear to Darsam.” “I understand. But what has happened?” “In short, Darsam will take Young Master back to his room at Kranggan, not to Wonokromo.” “I must know why.”

He was silent and closely observed the stall woman as she went by. “Finished yet, Darsam?” came Annelies's voice. “Be patient, Non,” he answered without looking outside. Seeing that the stall woman had gone, he resumed his whispering. “It is Sinyo Robert, Young Master. Making many promises, he has ordered me, Darsam, to kill Young Master.”

I wasn't at all surprised. I had already noted the signs of that youth's ill intent.

"How have I wronged him?" “Only jealousy, I think. Nyai is fonder of Young Master. He feels unhappy with another man in the house.” “He can tell me to my face. Why is he going to you?” “He thinks too little, Young Master. That's what makes him so dangerous. Now Young Master knows, understands my advice. Don't tell this to Nyai or Noni. Don't ever. Let's go.” He paid for what we'd eaten, not asking my opinion about any of this.

Fato's buggy had disappeared.

Our carriage set off. And in Wonokromo—if Darsam was right—someone wanted to take my life, the only one I had. Fatso had been spying on me since B--------. Perhaps my father's anger with me was justified after all. And my mother's warning that I must be ready to accept all the consequences of my own deeds was not to be wasted either.

Yes, yes, Robert Mellema had the right to look upon me as an intruder into his kingdom. At the very least I was another thing for him to worry about. He was fully entitled to think that way about me.

Annelies didn't want to let go of my hand, as if I were a slippery fish that might jump out of the carriage at any moment. She didn't speak. Her eyes showed her thoughts were far away.

"Ann, I found your money in my case," I said. “Yes, I put it there. You might have needed it. You were on an unknown journey and you had to return to me quickly.”

"Thank you, Ann. I didn't use it."

She laughed for the first time. But her laughter didn't interest me. The carriage lantern didn't throw its rays back into the carriage. Darkness. Annelies's beauty was swallowed up by the blackness. Even if that hadn't been so, I'd still not have been interested. My mind was preoccupied with more forbidding matters, and these matters were stealing all that could be said to be enjoyable. My earth, this earth of mankind, had lost all its certainty. All the science and learning that had made me what I am evaporated into nothingness. Nothing could be trusted. Robert? Yes, I understood him. Fatso? I would recognize his shape, even, I think, in the dark. But it could be someone I didn't know, someone I'd never predict, who was going to carry out this evil against me. Surabaya was famous for its paid killers—who charged only a half to two rupiahs. Every week there were corpses found sprawled on the beach, in the forests, on the roadside, in the markets, and their bodies always had knife wounds.

The carriage headed for Kranggan.

What could I say to Annelies? before I'd a chance to think up an explanation, we stopped in front of the Telingas' house. Without speaking Darsam off-loaded my things. “Why are they being off-loaded here?” protested Annelies again. “Ann,” I said gently, “I have to prepare for my lessons this week. So for the time being, I can't accompany you home. I'm really sorry. Thank you for meeting me, Ann. Say sorry to Mama for me, yes? I really can't go on to Wonokromo yet. I must stay here where I am closer to my teachers. My regards and thanks to Mama. Once I'm free again I'll definitely come back to Wonokromo.” “Mas hasn't been able to study while he's been at Wonokromo? No one bothered you. Forgive me if I've been a bother to you.” She was on the verge of crying. “No, Ann, of course not.” “Tell me if I've been a bother, so I know what I've done wrong.” Her voice trembled as she came closer to crying. “No, Ann; truly, no.”

There was how way it could have been avoided. She cried. Cried like a little child. “Why are you crying? It's only for a week, Ann, only a week. After that I'll be there again for sure. Isn't that so, Darsam?” “Yes, Non. Don't cry like this at somebody else's house.”

At that moment my sense of being a Javanese knight disappeared; a knight beyond compare, but only in my own imagination. Now I was just a coward—scared because of a report, just a report, that my life was in danger. “Mas must come quickly to Wonokromo,” she entreated, crying, surrendering to her feelings. “So you understand, yes?” She nodded. “When everything is over, I will come back quickly. For the moment I hope that you will listen to me and understand my situation.” “Yes, Mas, I'm not disagreeing,” she answered faintly. “Until we meet again, my goddess.” “Mas.”

I got down. Darsam was still waiting in front of the door.

It was already night and lamps were shimmering everywhere. It was only my thoughts that weren't clear. “Why don't you tell Mama?” I whispered to Darsam. “No. Nyai already has enough troubles because of her children and her tuan. Darsam must take care of this matter himself. Young Master must be patient.”

Mr. and Mrs. Telinga were on the settee waiting for me to come out of my room and tell them what had happened. Such a good and happy couple! I don't know how they felt about me. I didn't go out, but locked the door from inside, changed clothes, and got into bed without eating dinner. Before I put out the lamp I still needed to look up at the portrait of Queen Wilhelmina. This earth of mankind! She was secure in her palace, free of all problems, except perhaps within her own heart and mind. And me? Her subject, promised by the astrologer's stars the same fate, yet I may glimpse at any moment, springing from out of the corners of this room, a death arranged by Robert Mellema.

The room was enveloped in darkness. The conversation in the middle room came indistinctly to my ears. No meaning. As young as this, and already there was somebody desiring to take my life. The promise of the modern age, glorious and exciting as told by my teachers, showed not a single sign or indication of its whereabouts. Robert, why are you as mad as this? Murder because of jealous love still occurs the world over—a remnant of bestiality among men. Something unique to man. Murder out of greed was another remnant from man's bestial life. Yes? It's true, isn't it? But you, you're more complex still. You hate your mother, your origins, and obtain no love from them. You beg love from your father, who pays you no heed either. You're jealous, Robert, because your mother's love now flows to me. Because you're afraid that your inheritance will flow to me also—somebody who has no right to it just as depicted in European fiction. Probably in your eyes I'm no better than a criminal.

I've been honest to myself, haven't I? And to the world? Look: I want no more than to enjoy what I've created by my own hard strivings. I need nothing else. A happy life, in my view, does not come from that which is given to one, but from one's own struggles. My separation from my own family had taught me that—a problem more complicated than all my school lessons put together.

And you too, Darsam! Let's hope your mouth cannot be believed. Let's hope Robert is not as evil as that. But you too are hiding some other purpose, and an evil one.

And you, Fatso, with clear, langsat-fruit skin and slightly slanted eyes—what is your business with me? Someone as neatly dressed as you, is it possible you're just a paid killer? Because you want the Mellema girl and the Mellema wealth?

And Sarah and Miriam de la Croix, and Assistant Resident B-----. .. and Association Theory ...

My heart shriveled up. Why was I such a coward?

So that this story of mine runs in order, let me next relate what happened to Robert after I left Wonokromo for B--------in the company of that police officer.

I've put together the story below based on what Annelies, Nyai, Darsam, and others told me; and this is how it has ended up:

When the buggy I was traveling in disappeared, swallowed up by the morning darkness, Annelies cried, embracing Mama. (I don't know why she was such a crybaby and so spoiled, just like a little child.)

"Quiet, Ann, he'll be safe," said Nyai.

"Why did Mama let him be taken a Viray?" protested Annelies. “That slave of the law, Ann; there's no way we can fight him.” “Let's follow him, Mama.” “No point. It's still too early. And it's clear he's being taken toB------.” “Mama, ah Mama.” “You really love him?” “Don't torment me like this, Mama.” “So what should I do? Nothing, Ann. We must wait. We can't just do whatever we feel like.”

"Do something, Mama. Do something." “You think Minke is just your doll, Ann. He's not a doll. Do something, do something! Of course, I'm going to do something. Be patient. It's still too early in the morning.” “You're going to leave me like this, Mama? Do you want to kill me?”

Nyai became confused. She had never heard that sort of lamentation from her daughter, who usually never complained about anything. She knew and understood that Annelies was going through a crisis. Annelies: her trusted work companion. She knew she must do everything that Annelies wanted, that Annelies considered to be her right. She took her daughter inside to let her rest in her room.

But Annelies refused. She wanted to wait for Minke until he returned. “It's not possible, Ann. Not possible. Maybe it'll be the day after tomorrow or the next day before he's back.”

And Annelies began to withdraw into silence.

Mama became even more confused. She knew that ever since Annelies was little she had never asked for anything. And now over the last few weeks she had been asking—not just asking, but urging, demanding—all concerning Minke. She had always been obedient, behaved sweetly, had been sweet-hearted. Now she was beginning to be rebellious.

Annelies demanded her doll back. And the only person she could go to was her mother.

Nyai worried that her daughter might fall ill. She began to see more and more signs that all was not well with Annelies. Could it be that this obedient child was unable to deal with personal trauma, just like her father?

And the sun slowly began to rise.

Darsam arrived to open the doors and windows. He was startled to see the behavior of his Noni. He was powerless to solve a problem requiring neither machete nor muscles. “Yes, this is government business,” said Mama softly, in a rustling voice. “Affairs that can neither be felt nor seen, affairs of the spirit world.”

Suddenly Mama remembered her eldest child. In the next moment, she suspected him of sending an anonymous letter to the police. She suspected him! She would investigate immediately.

"Call Robert here," Mama ordered Darsam.

And Robert came, rubbing his eyes. He stood silently. If it hadn't been for Darsam, he wouldn't have come. Everyone knew that. He stood without speaking a word. His eyes were dull with disinterest. “How many times and to whom have you sent your poison-pen letters?”

He didn't answer. Darsam went up closer to him.

"Answer, Nyo," the fighter urged.

Annelies was clinging to Nyai, holding herself up. “I've got nothing to do with any anonymous letters,” he answered viciously, his face towards Darsam. “Do I look like a poison-pen letter writer?”

"Answer to Nyai, not to me," hissed Darsam. “I've never written any, let alone sent any.” Now he faced Mama. “Good. I always try to believe what you say. Why do you hate Minke? Because he's better and more educated than you?" “I've got no business with Minke. He's only a Native.” “And it's because he's a Native that you hate him.” “So what's the point of having European blood?” he challenged her. “Good. You hate Minke because he is a Native and you have European blood. Good. It's obvious I'm not capable of educating and teaching you. Only a European could do that for you. Good, Rob. Now I, your mother, this Native, know that people with European blood are, of course, wiser, more educated than Natives. You know what I mean. Now, I ask the Native blood in you—not the European in you—to go to the Surabaya police station. Find out what's happened to Minke. Darsam can't do that. I can't either. The work here won't allow it. You speak Dutch well and you can read and write. Darsam can't. I want to see what you're capable of doing. Go by horse, and be quick.”

Robert didn't reply. “Go, Nyo!” ordered Darsam.

Without answering, Robert Mellema turned around and walked off, dragging his sandals. He went into his room and didn't come out again. “Warn him, Darsam!” ordered Mama.

Darsam went after Robert into his room.

The world outside was beginning to clear. Robert left his room escorted by the Madurese fighter. He went out back, to the stables. He had put on jodhpurs and riding boots, and in his hand was a leather whip. “You just sleep, Ann,” consoled Nyai. “No.”

Nyai checked Annelies's temperature and it was rising. The girl was falling ill. Her mother was very anxious. “Put the sofa in the office, Darsam, so I can be with her while I work. Don't forget the blanket. Then fetch Dr. Martinet.” She sat her child on the chair. “Be patient, Ann, patient. Do you really love him?” “Mama, my Mama!” whispered Annelies. “Falling sick like this, Ann! No, Mama won't forbid you loving him. No, darling. You can marry him, any time you like, if he agrees. But now, be patient.” “Mama,” called Annelies with her eyes closed. “Where's your cheek, Mama; here, Mama, so I can kiss it,” and she kissed her mother's cheek. “But don't fall ill. Who will help me? Could you bear to watch your Mama work like a horse?” “Mama, I'll always help you.” “So you mustn't get sick like this, darling.” “I don't want to be sick, Mama.” “Your temperature is rising, Ann. You must learn wisdom, child; people can only do their best, then be patient in awaiting the outcome.”

Darsam moved the sofa into the office, but Annelies refused to be moved until she'd seen Robert leave on his horse. And her brother still wasn't to be seen. “Chase Robert, Darsam!” exclaimed Mama.

Darsam ran to the back. Ten minutes later that tall, handsome youth raced off on his horse without looking back, straight down onto the main road. And a quarter of an hour later Darsam drove off in the buggy to fetch Dr. Martinet.

Only then was Annelies willing to be led into the office. Nyai lay a brown-onion-and-vinegar compress on her daughter's forehead. “Forgive me, Ann, I'm not strong enough to carry you. Sleep now. The doctor will be here in a little while, and Robert will be back with news.”

Nyai went to the corner of the office, turned on the tap, and washed her face and combed her hair.

From under the blanket, Annelies asked in a whisper: “Do you like him, Mama?” “Of course, Ann, a good boy,” answered Nyai, still combing her hair. “How could Mama not like him, when you do? Any parent would be proud to have a son like him. And what woman wouldn't be proud to be his wife one day? His legal wife. Mama too would be proud to have him as a son-in-law.” “Mama, my own Mama!” “So you shouldn't worry about a thing.” “Does he like me, Mama?” “What boy wouldn't be mad about you, Ann? Pure-Blood, Indo, Native. All of them. Mama knows, Ann. There's no girl as beautiful as you. Don't worry about a thing. Close your eyes."

The girl's eyes had already been closed for some time. She asked: “If his parents forbid it, Mama, then what?”

"I told you not to worry about anything. Mama will arrange everything. Sleep. Stay quiet there. Let me get some milk. Remember, you must be healthy. What would Minke say if you became unattractive and gloomy? Even the prettiest girl looks unattractive when she's sick."

Nyai called out from the office to someone from the kitchen. Not long after, someone brought some hot milk. “Mama will bathe you first. Then try to sleep, Anh.”

Nyai went to bathe. On her return she brought warm water and a towel and took care of her daughter.

Annelies didn't say a single word.

Dr. Martinet came, examined her for a moment, and then gave her some medicine. He was fortyish, polite, quiet, and friendly. He was dressed all in white except for his 'gray felt hat.

In his right eye was a monocle attached by a gold chain to the top buttonhole.

Darsam hurried around preparing breakfast for the doctor to eat in the office. And the guest breakfasted with Nyai. “I'll come back this afternoon, Nyai. Give her some breakfast before she sleeps, but no solids. Keep her away from any noise or commotion. Make sure everything is quiet. Sleep is her best medicine. Move her into her own room. Don't leave her in the office like this. Or move the sofa into the middle room. Keep the windows and the doors closed.”

And what about Robert Mellema?

According to the people at Boerderij, eyewitnesses, and the accused at a trial later on, the events unfolded as I've assembled them below:

After leaving the stables, Robert raced the horse along the road. Then he turned right towards Surabaya. When he got onto the main road he pulled up his horse, looked left and right, and slowed down to enjoy the morning view. He probably felt resentful. Just to protect an adventurer like Minke he had to wake as early as this and go to a police station too. And what for? Let Minke disappear forever. The world won't be any poorer, won't have to undergo any extra suffering without him; a speck of dust brought in by the wind from who knows where, and wanting to dwell in his house for who knows how long.

The horse walked on unhappily because, of course, it hadn't eaten that morning, hadn't had its sweet drink yet. Robert hadn't breakfasted yet either, and already he had to be off working.

The morning was more than just cool. The buffalo carts carrying the oil drums from Wonokromo hadn't appeared yet in their usual long, seemingly unbroken convoy. Only the traders from the villages were walking in a line, carrying on their backs produce for the markets of Surabaya.

The horse had covered about fifty meters at a slow walk. Robert's thoughts were wandering everywhere. From behind the hedge on the right a voice could be heard calling out a greeting. “Regards, Sinyo Robert.”

He pulled up his horse and had a look over the top of the hedge. He could see a Chinese man in striped pajamas smiling sweetly at him. The man had very little hair so that even his pigtail was very thin. When he smiled, his cheeks pulled upward and his eyes became even more narrow and slanted. Even his mustache was thin, long, drooping impotently at the ends of his mouth. His beard was also very thin, and out of a birthmark, a part of his beard formed a tassel and was darker. “Greetings, Nyo,” he repeated, when he saw Robert was unsure whether to answer. “Greetings, Babah Ah Tjong!” Robert answered politely, nodding and smiling. “Regards, regards, Nyo. How are things with Nyai?” “Well, Babah. This is the first time I've seen Babah. Where have you been all this time?” “As usual, Nyo, much business. And how are things with Tuan?” “As usual, Bah, a lot of business. The door to Babah's house is open today. The windows too. What's going on today, Bah? Something special perhaps?” “A good day, Nyo. A day for pleasure. Come on, Nyo, drop in.” Ah Tjong's smile mollified Robert's resentment and also his hatred of everything Chinese. He'd never had any desire to meet a Chinese. On any other occasion, he wouldn't even have responded to a greeting from one, let alone enter his yard or house; but now there was something he really wanted to find out. “Good, Bah, I'll drop in for a moment,” and Robert turned his horse into his neighbor's yard.

He had never met Babah Ah Tjong, so he had only guessed that this was who he was speaking to. Babah ran down to greet Robert. Robert saw the pigtailed man clap his hands. A sinkeh, a full-blooded, immigrant Chinese, a gardener, came running, and he took the horse from Robert's hands, then led the horse around to the back of the house.

Robert and Ah Tjong walked together slowly along the rocky path towards that building whose doors and windows were usually never open. They entered. And now the front stairs vanished behind a curtain of coconut-husk cords. The front area, which had no veranda, was very large, furnished with a number of carved teak settees. In one corner there was a br'own-spotted bamboo settee. The walls were decorated with different-sized mirrors with red Chinese calligraphy on them. A carved wooden partition closed off the mouth of the corridor in the middle of the building. Several big empty porcelain vases decorated the room; they stood on legs with a dragon curled around them. There were no floor decorations. Neither was there a picture of Queen Wilhelmina. There were no flowers anywhere in the front room either.

Ah Tjong took him to the bamboo settee, which consisted of three chairs and a long bench. The bench faced the front courtyard. The host sat there and Robert opposite him. “Ah, Nyo, we've been neighbors so long and you've never come to visit.” “How could I when the doors and windows are always closed?” “Ah, Nyo, come now. How could this house be kept shut all the time?” “This is the first time I've seen it open.” “If it's opened up like this, Nyo Robert, it means, of course, that I'm home.” “So where do you go when it's closed up?” “Where do I go?” he laughed happily. “What will you drink, Nyo? What's your usual? Whiskey, brandy, cognac? Chinese wine perhaps? White, yellow, warm, cold? Or Malaga wine? Or dry?"

"Ah, Babah, as early as this." “What's wrong with that? With fried peanuts, heh?” “I agree, Bah, agree completely.” “Good, Nyo. It's pleasing to receive a guest like Sinyo: handsome, dashing, not shy, young . . . Sinyo has everything. Wealthy . . . wah.”

He clapped hands haughtily, without moving his head, without turning, just like a sultan. From behind the partition emerged a Chinese girl in a long, sleeveless gown. The side of her gown was split high up, exposing her thigh. Her hair was braided into two pigtails.

Robert stared wide-eyed at the alabaster-skinned girl. His eyes couldn't move from the split in her gown until the girl came up close to put the whiskey bottle, glasses, and fried peanuts on the table.

Ah Tjong spoke quickly in Chinese to the girl, who then stood up straight in front of Robert.

Robert was acutely embarrassed. He couldn't speak. His eyes and face shifted away as if tugged by a demon. “This is Miss Min Hwa. Sinyo doesn't like her?” He cleared his throat. “Just out from Hong Kong.”

Min Hwa bowed, put the tray on the table, and sat on the chair near Robert.

"It's a great pity, Nyo. Min Hwa can't speak Malay or Dutch or Javanese. Only Chinese. What can one do? Why is Sinyo silent? Why? She's next to you now. Ai-ai, don't pretend Sinyo has never done this before! Come on, Nyo, you don't need to be shy with Babah."

Min Hwa pressed the whiskey glass to Robert's lips, and he took it hesitantly.

Ah Tjong smiled sweetly, deliberately encouraging him. Min Hwa laughed shrilly and friskily, throwing her head back, her face muscles pulled tight, her mouth open and her pearl teeth, except for one which was gold, on display inside. Then the girl spoke quickly and loudly without pauses, without full stops. Robert didn't understand; instead he became even more unsure of himself as the girl moved her chair closer.

Seeing Robert go pale and the glass in his hand almost fall, Min Hwa pushed the glass up to the tall youth's lips again. And Robert swallowed the whiskey down without hesitating. Suddenly he started coughing—he had never drunk liquor before. Whiskey sprayed all over Ah Tjong and Min Hwa. They weren't angry, but laughed happily.

"Another glass, Nyo," the host suggested.

Min Hwa poured more whiskey into the glass and once more ordered the young guest to drink. He refused and wiped his mouth with a handkerchief. He was even more embarrassed. “Come on, Sinyo, you aren't going to pretend you've never drunk whiskey before?” he teased. “You don't like whiskey, you don't like Min Hwa?” He waved his hand and the girl left, disappearing behind the carved partition. He clapped again.

Now another Chinese girl appeared, wearing a silk shirt and bright-colored pants. She wiggled as she walked up to the bamboo settee carrying a bamboo tray on which were various delicacies. She put it on the table, on top of the tray left by Man Hwa.

She bowed to Robert and smiled enticingly. Like the first girl, she wore lipstick. Before the delicacies were all laid out Min Hwa entered again, bringing a glass of clear water on a glass tray. She put it before Robert. Then she sat down again on the same seat as before. “Ah, Nyo, there are two now. Which is the more interesting? Come on, don't be shy. This one is Sie-Sie.”

Several carriages began arriving at the front of the house. The guests all came straight inside. Some wore Chinese clothes, others pajamas. All were men and had pigtails. Without worrying whether the host was there or not, they sat down straight away and began busily chatting, laughing, and gambling. “It looks like there's none you like, Nyo,” breethd Ah Tjong and he moved his hand to order them to leave to serve the other guests. “Sinyo doesn't like Sie-Sie either. …” He stood and called Sie-Sie over.

As soon as the woman had come back, Ah Tjong sat her down next to Robert. “Who knows, perhaps Sinyo prefers this one.”

And Robert still appeared very embarrassed, confused; wanting to, but afraid. Babah broke into laughter again, enjoying seeing the youth in his confusion. The other guests took no notice of the three of them sitting in the corner.

Sie-Sie started chatting in a loud, fast voice; then she began to seduce him, straightening his shirt and belt, pinching the crease on his shirt. Babah kept observing it all and laughing too. Robert shrank up still more. Then the two Chinese spoke noisily to each other. Robert still couldn't understand a word. “Very well, Nyo; Nyo doesn't like either of them.”

Sie-Sie rose and disappeared behind the partition and Ah Tjong clapped four times.

Robert began to regret her going. He bowed his head. From behind the partition there, now appeared a Japanese woman in a kimino with big flowers on it. She took short, quick steps. Her face was reddish and round and her lips were lipsticked and always smiling. Her hair was in a bun. She sat straight down beside the host. When she laughed, one gold tooth was visible.

"Look here, Nyo; here is another one."

Perhaps because he didn't want to have still more regrets, Robert got up the courage to look at the Japanese woman. “Nyo, this is Maiko. Just two months out from Japan.”

Before he stopped talking, Maiko spoke in a high voice in rapid Japanese. Robert didn't understand this either. Yet he got up the courage to gaze at her.

Ah Tjong put his hand across the woman's mouth and said: “This is my own one. Sinyo can have her if you like. Sit here, near her.”

Like a dog scared of his master's stick, Robert stood and slowly moved over to sit on the bench, so Maiko was squeezed between them. “So Sinyo likes this one? Maiko? Good.” He laughed, understanding. “In that case I'll go. I'll leave it up to Sinyo.”

The guest followed his host with his eyes.

Ah Tjong mixed with his many guests, playing cards, billiards, or mah-jongg. He walked around slowly, checking each table. Then he went back to the bamboo settee and stood in front of the couple, neither of whom could say a meaningful word to the other. “Yes, it's difficult, Nyo. Maiko doesn't understand Malay, let alone Dutch. How come Sinyo has never mixed with Japanese ladies? You've never been to the Kembang Jepun, perhaps?” “I've never even seen one before now, Bah.” Robert had at last got up the courage to speak. “A loss, Nyo, a loss for a youth with money. In nearly every Chinese pleasure-house like this, there is a Japanese miss. A loss, Nyo, a loss. You've never been into places in the red light district downtown? In the Kembang Jepun? In Betawi? Indeed you've really missed out on something, Nyo Robert . . . Japanese misses everywhere … a pity. Come on.”

He summoned Robert with an emperor's flourish, and the three of them left the room, Babah out front, Robert behind him, and Maiko at the rear. Ah Tjong's pigtail swayed a little at each step because it was so thin and it swept across the back of his pajama shirt. They passed the carved partition. Maiko continued to talk in her enticing voice and to walk in those short, quick steps. The smell of perfume filled the air.

They entered a corridor that was hemmed in on left and right by rooms, and that had no furniture except wall decorations. Here and there a few young Chinese girls were standing talking to each other. They were all elaborately dressed and neatly made up and greeted Ah Tjong with great respect, then Robert, but not Maiko.

Robert paid attention to every person. Short, tall, thin, fat, well built and weak-looking; they all wore lipstick and smiled or laughed. “Such pretty girls are life's pleasure, Nyo. It's a pity you don't like the Chinese ones.” He laughed piercingly. “All the rooms face each other.

Sinyo can take whichever he likes, as long as the door is left unlocked.

He opened a door so Robert could see inside. Its furniture was as good as that in his own room, and it was just as clean, only it wasn't as big, and the bed was more beautiful. “For Sinyo here is a king's room, a room of honor, if Sinyo likes it.” He walked along again and opened another door. “Only Tuan Majoor may use this room. It happens he's in Hong Kong at the moment.”

All the furniture inside was new and in a style Robert didn't recognize—had never come across. Babah asked his guest's opinion. And Robert had no opinion except to agree that it was beautiful.

Ah Tjong entered; Robert and Maiko followed. “The best furniture, Nyo. Just finished, French style in teak. Made by famous French craftsmen. Indeed Tuan Majoor likes everything French. Most expensive furnishings in the building, Nyo. In the corner is a little cupboard, on top of that little table there's whiskey and sake, whatever Sinyo likes. Settee, sofa, and divan,” he said, pointing out each in turn. “Such a beautifully carved wooden bed makes for restful and pleasant sleeping. Yes, Maiko?”

And Maiko answered with a bow and with a soft, fast voice, like a magpie. “Nyo, enjoy yourself!”

Robert's eyes followed Ah Tjong as he walked outside, watching his pigtail until it disappeared behind the door.

Because I consider the time sequence to be important I've also prepared this section from material I obtained from the court testimony later. Most of it is based on Maiko's—given through a sworn translator and written down by me just as I heard it but in my own words.

I went to Hong Kong from Nagoya, Japan, where I was born. I went as a prostitute. My boss was a Japanese and he then sold me to a Chinese boss in Hong Kong. I can no longer remember the name of my second boss. Just a few weeks in his hands were not enough for me to be able to remember his name, so hard to pronounce. He sold me to another boss, also a Chinese, and so I was brought out by ship to Singapore. I knew this third boss only by the name of Ming. I knew no more than that. He was very satisfied and pleased with me because of the profit my body and the service I gave earned for him.

My fourth boss was a Singapore Japanese. He had a great passion to own me. The bargaining went on for quite a while. Finally I was bought for seventy-five Singapore dollars, the high- est price ever paid for a Japanese public-woman in Singapore. I was indeed proud that my body was more highly valued than those of the Sundanese public-women, who occupied the highest position and were the most expensive in Southeast Asia's pleasure-world.

But my pride in this didn't last long—only five months. My boss, the Japanese one, came to hate me greatly. He beat me often. He even tortured me once with burning cigarettes because my customers were declining in numbers. Such was indeed the fate that could befall even the most famous prostitute: syphilis. And what I had caught was no ordinary syphilis. In this cursed world of prostitution the disease was called Burmese syphilis. I don't know why it is called that.

It was famous for being incurable, and the men were ruined and destroyed more quickly and more painfully. Women could go without feeling anything for a long time.

So I was sold for twenty-five dollars to a Chinese boss, my fifth boss. He took me to Betawi. Before the sale took place, my old boss took me into a room. He beat me on my chest and back until I fainted. After I regained consciousness I was stripped naked and parts of me underwent acupuncture so as to kill all physical sexual desire. His name was Nakagawa. I was handed over to my new boss the next day.

On the first day with my new boss, he wanted to try me. I refused. If he found out I had that accursed disease, I'd suffer still more torture. Perhaps I'd be killed. It was nothing unusual for a prostitute to be killed by her boss and the corpse destroyed or hidden who knows where. A prostitute without a protector is a weak being. Especially too as I knew that symptoms of my declining sexual desire were beginning to show. I asked my boss to hire an acupuncturist. Three times I received treatment and my sexual desire began to revive. Yet I still refused to be tried out by my boss. He was lucky he didn't try to force me.

It was only three months later that my boss found out I had a disease. He was angry. I could tell only from his face and the tone of his voice because I understood no Chinese. My customers dwindled away. People avoided my body and he became annoyed and bad-tempered. Night and day I prayed that he wouldn't torment me. No. He could torment and torture me as long as he didn't steal my savings.

I hoped to return to Japan next year and marry Nakatani, who was waiting for me to bring home some capital.

My boss didn't torture me, and didn't steal my savings either. When I changed hands to become the property of Babah Ah Tjong at a price equivalent to ten Singapore dollars, he gave me half a guilder and said in broken Japanese: “Actually I wanted to make you my concubine.”

It was such a disappointment to hear those words. A concubine's life was not so harsh as a prostitute's; you could live reasonably, and were freer than the wife of a Japanese youth who hoped for capital from his future woman. What could be done? This accursed disease had taken root with me.

Babah Ah Tjong lusted greatly after me. I tried to repulse him, afraid of some new disaster. If I was exposed again, the value of my body might have fallen as low as five dollars, and I'd have become street rubbish in someone else's country. So I asked him to hire another acupuncturist. This one guaranteed I could be cured over a month with ten punctures each evening. Babah objected to the time it was going to take, and to the expense. He allowed only one treatment, as an experiment.

Before leaving for Surabaya, I ran out of excuses to refuse my boss. I was used by him alone until I was put in his pleasure-house at Wonokromo, and I had the best room.

If he was there, he almost always stayed in my room, not in any of the other fourteen rooms.

Babah didn't seem to be infected by the disease. I no longer had to worry; I was happy. There were men who were immune to the diseases of the pleasure world. Or perhaps the acupuncture treatment had made me less contagious. Who knows? And my price might go up again. Yes, I thought, who knows? If Babah had taken me as a concubine I would have been grateful and would have served him as well as any concubine could. If not, eleven months would have been enough, and I could have gone home. At the very least I would have been able to afford to redeem myself from my last boss.

That month passed. Babah became infected with Burmese syphilis too. He didn't know; he wasn't acquainted with that strange disease. He didn't accuse me straight away because there he had many other women. Neither of us could speak to each other either. A I knew he'd been affected by the disease when, one day, he lined up stark naked all fourteen of his prostitutes, all nationalities, and questioned them one by one about their diseases. In his right hand he carried a leather whip and with his left hand he measured for suspicious temperatures in those poor women's vaginas.

As a Japanese, I was the only woman he did not suspect. In the pleasure-world of this earth, Japanese prostitutes are considered the cleanest and the cleverest in looking after their health. Everyone assumes they are free of disease. So he didn't check on me.

Three of them were taken out from the line. Ah Tjong ordered the other women, except me, to tie those three up. They were gagged. Ah Tjong himself beat them with his leather whip, and there was no noise from their gagged mouths. They were my victims. And I remained silent.

It's hard being a prostitute. If you contract a disease you must quickly report it to your boss, who will then oppress you. It's best to stay silent until he finds out for himself. But the torment and oppression will still come.

After the three women recovered from their maltreatment they were sold to a Singapore middleman to be taken to Medan, in Sumatra. I still remained unaccused in Ah Tjong's pleasure-house. While I was servicing only him, I wasn't too tired. I was getting back my health and energy. Also my beauty.

Almost every wealthy Chinese has his own brothel, his own pleasure-house. In Hong Kong, Singapore, Betawi, or Surabaya, they all have the same custom, namely, to take turns visiting each other's places. So one day it was Babah Ah Tjong's turn to receive everyone.

Babah's clapping called me early in the morning. I went out. There was supposed to be gambling that morning. The afternoon and evening would be for taking pleasure. Some guests had already arrived and were playing cards, mah-jongg, or billiards in the front room.

I was already uneasy. It mustn't happen that Babah Ah Tjong surrender me to one of his guests. Who knew if they might like Japanese women very much? How many must I service if Babah allowed it?

It turned out that he did indeed order me to receive a guest: a tall, big-bodied youth, strong and handsome, healthy and attractive—of European descent. His name: Robert. My heart was moved and saddened to think of his future. I saw in a glance that he was a green one without much experience. Who wouldn't have felt compassion knowing a boy as young as that must contract such a disastrous disease if, in a little while, he desired my body. He'd carry it all his life, perhaps he'd be deformed by it or even die an early death?

I studied the look on Ah Tjong's face.. Was he joking or serious? It seemed he had no worries about giving me to Robert. Then I understood: He knew that it was I who had infected him with the disease. Soon he would sell me to someone else, or he'd force me to redeem myself by paying who knows how many tens of dollars. I felt very, very sad that morning.

After Babah took Robert and me into the room and locked it from the outside, I knew I had to work, and to work as well as possible. I had to throw off all my sadness and anxiety.

Robert sat on the divan. I quickly knelt before him and took off his boots. So early in the morning! His socks were dirty and looked as if they had not been cared for properly. I took sandals from the wardrobe. None were the right size. His feet were very big. What could be done? It was only then I pulled his socks from | those strong and firm legs of his. I just placed the sandals in front of him. I didn't put them on him. Such sandals, made from rice stalks, would be crushed under his feet.

He didn't put them on himself either. He seemed to be a person who thought a lot.

Robert said nothing, but only stared at me, and everything I did, with amazement.

I took off his shirt, which had two pockets. He was silent.

I knew both pockets were empty. I invited him to stand up and I took off his riding trousers. I folded them and hung them up in the wardrobe, though I did so unwillingly as they were filthy and stank. His underclothes looked as if they hadn't been changed for a week. So dirty. He seemed rather embarrassed.

That was the youth Robert. He had nothing besides his youth and his health, his handsomeness and his own lust. I began to think again: Why was Babah giving me to this boy who had nothing? Perhaps he wasn't going to sell me, or force me to redeem myself because of the accursed disease. Maybe he didn't know about my disease after all. These thoughts made me somewhat happier and calm again.

From inside the wardrobe I took out one of the Majoor's kimonos. I took off Robert's underclothes and put the kimono on him. He sat silently. I gave him a goblet of special wine to strengthen him. I didn't want him to have any regrets in the future when he contracted the disease that would nest in his body forever. Let him have beautiful memories from that which would one day cause him unlimited misery, a beauty and enjoyment that was his right.

He swallowed the wine, all the time watching me in amazement. I kept talking gently so as not to disturb his mood. That was one of the many aspects of my work as a prostitute.

Of course he didn't understand a single word. Even so I did not say a single nasty word. And what man didn't like to hear a Japanese woman talk and pronounce her words? And watch her way of moving and walking? And enjoy her services inside and outside the bedroom?

At eight-thirty in the morning we got into bed. Robert refused lunch. He was very strong. His body was bathed in sweat, which made it feel as if he was made from molded copper. He didn't once let go of me. His movements were awkward, the movements of an inexperienced youth. If it wasn't for the special strengthening wine, he would have bled and not been able to become erect by himself. Let it be. Not long and his tremendous body would be destroyed and broken. Everything he had would be destroyed: his youth, handsomeness, strength. Ah, ah, ah... blessings that not everybody receives. So I pricked him on parts of his body just as the acupuncturist had done to me. He didn't know what I was up to, yet he bore it like a retarded little child, and I did it all while in his powerful embrace.

At four o'clock in the afternoon he let me go and got down from the bed. I too got down and wiped his sweat-covered body several times with wet towels and rose water. Five towels! All his energy was gone. His strength and handsomeness disappeared, like old clothes piled on a chair. He asked for his clothes. I fetched them and piece by piece put them on him, including his filthy, smelly socks and his heavy leather boots. After that I scrubbed his hair and I massaged his head so it would be free from aches. I combed his hair neatly. Only then did I myself dress after scrubbing my body with a wet towel too.

He seemed very satisfied. He still availed himself of the chance to grab my arm and sit me on his lap and he spoke slowly and with a deep voice. I didn't understand what it meant but I liked listening to the deepness of his voice. And I struggled to free myself, afraid that his lust would be awakened again. I hadn't breakfasted or eaten lunch. I too would have been damaged if I'd serviced him again. Perhaps his stomach was empty too.

He was so pale, as if he'd just gotten over an illness. I couldn't bear to look at him. I fetched some more special wine for him so there'd be some blood in his face. Then I took him outside the room.

But he hesitated and stopped in the middle of the doorway. Suddenly he turned and came inside again, embraced me and kissed me lustfully. Respectfully and politely I pushed him outside and locked the door from inside. I was very tired.

Below is the evidence of Babah Ah Tjong at court, spoken in Malay, and translated into Dutch by a sworn translator. I put it into order as follows:

At the time, I was in the office of my pleasure-house. About four in the afternoon the bell from the emperor room rang, signaling a request to unlock the door from outside.

I myself went to look after it. Sinyo Robert was indeed my very special guest. It's very strange that you ask why. He was the son of my neighbor, and it had long been our custom to be friendly with our neighbors. Especially as one day Sinyo Robert would be my full neighbor, not just the son of my neighbor.

He came out. His face was pale. Everything attractive about him had dissolved away. He almost couldn't lift up his head. He didn't seem to know his limits. He was somebody who one day would surrender all his body and soul to lust. Even so, he looked satisfied. That was evident from his lips, which bloomed with an unforced smile. Naturally I was happy to see this. “Nyo,” I addressed him. “We will be good neighbors beginning today and forever, yes?”

He suddenly looked at me with eyes wide open and full of suspicion. He shriveled up, frightened. Someone experienced like me could tell immediately: He realized he'd have to pay out a lot of money for the pleasur ^{A} he had just taken. “Let me sign the bill,” he said hesitantly. A “Ai, Nyo, we'll be good neighbors. Sinyo doesn't need to pay anything. Don't worry. Who knows, one day we could become partners? In short you're welcome to return any time you like. You can use any room you like, as long as it's unlocked, without any time limits, night or day. You can choose anyone you like. If the front doors and windows are locked, the can come in through the back door. I'll tell the gardener and the watchman.”

His hesitation disappeared. Then he answered: “Thank you very much, Babah. I never guessed Babah would be as good to me as this.” “Sinyo should have come here a long time ago. Only now you come.” “I'll come back, of course.” “Of course!”

I was his neighbor, I could never have turned him away. Especially as he was a youth still in his prime. So I not only had to think of ways to give him the chance to vent his lust but in the end I had to surrender Maiko to him until he was fully satisfied and bored.

He took leave to return home.

"It's already evening," he said.

And I didn't obstruct him in any way. I took him to my office first. His eyes went wild again when he saw the other women. He had changed; he was no longer the embarrassed youth of the morning. I pretended not to see—if I gave him another woman then I'd be breaking all the rules. So I called a woman, a barber, and ordered her to cut his hair according to my instructions.

Sinyo didn't refuse. She cut his hair in the Spanish style, with the part in the middle. His hair was rubbed with special hair oil, the most expensive. Then I ordered him to drink some palm wine from my private stock.

But that wasn't all. I gave him a dollar. A pure white dollar, like the sun, without fault. He accepted it shyly, nodded in thanks, silently. “Babah is indeed the very best of neighbors.”

I escorted him out through all the guests. Several stopped to ask for Maiko. Sinyo frowned and I refused them all. I accompanied him out to the yard. Only after his horse had reached the main road and turned left did I go inside again to find Maiko.

After that I don't know what happened to Sinyo.

And below is the story I've put together from the words of Nyai and Annelies about Robert Mellema:

At two o'clock Annelies awoke from her sleep. Her temperature had subsided. She asked whether Robert had returned.

"Not yet, Ann. I don't know where he could have got to."

Nyai was already very annoyed and angry with her son. She ordered Darsam not to leave his post. The delivery of the milk, cheese, and butter to the town was handed over to other drivers. Even the supervision of work out in back was delegated to people not really ready to become foremen. “Let me wait for him out front, Mama,” urged Annelies. “No. Waiting inside and outside is the same. It's better in the front room with Mama.”

Nyai supported Annelies and they sat together on a chair.

And still Robert didn't come. The sound of the pendulum clock disturbed the expectant atmosphere. Every now and then Nyai checked the yard. Her eldest still hadn't appeared. “How could this happen, Ann, you falling so madly for him after just a few days? He should be the one falling madly in love with you.”

Annelies didn't answer. Mama's words seemed to hurt her. “I'll fetch some food, yes?” “No need, Mama.” But Nyai went anyway and fetched two plates of rice, meat, and vegetables, spoon and fork and drinks.

Nyai ate, spoon-feeding Annelies at the same time. “If you don't want to chew, then just swallow,” she ordered.

And Annelies didn't chew anything, just swallowed. Still no sign of Robert.

Twice Nyai called Darsam to serve customers. And Annelies sat silently gazing into the far-off distance—very far off.

Two hours passed. “Ah, the crazy child is back at last!” exclaimed Nyai.

Only then did Annelies focus her vision on the main road. “Darsam!” Nyai called out from her place. When Darsam came, she continued: “Lock the office door. You stand here.” She pointed to the door that joined the office with the front room.

Robert rode in on his horse, calmly, unhurriedly. He stopped in front of the steps, let his horse go free without tying it up, walked up the steps, and stood before Nyai and Annelies.

Nyai raised her eyebrows when she saw her son's haircut with the new part in the middle. She noted that he wasn't perspiring. There was no dust on him either. The horsewhip was gone. He wasn't wearing his hat. Who knows where they were. “That part in the hair,” whispered Nyai. “That paleness. …” She covered her mouth with her hand. “See Ann, see what sort of brother you have. Your Papa was like this when he came home from his wanderings, just like this.

That smell of perfume . . . the same. If he opens his mouth, perhaps there will be that same smell of palm-wine as five years ago."

And Nyai didn't say a word to Robert.

Annelies looked at her brother with unfocused eyes. Darsam stood silently. Seeing that no one else was beginning to speak, the fighter from Madura cleared his throat. And as if he'd received an order, Robert looked up at Darsam, then shifted his look to his mother. “The police don't know where Minke was taken. They don't recognize that name at all.”

Nyai stood up, enraged. Her face was scarlet. She pointed her finger at her eldest son and hissed: “Liar!” “I've been everywhere seeking an explanation.” “All right, enough. You don't need to say anything. The smell on your breath, your perfume, that hair-part … the same as your father five years ago and ever since. Look well, Ann, that was the beginning of your father losing all his sense of direction. Go, get out, you liar! I have no son, a cheat and liar.”

Darsam, standing before the office door, coughed again. “Never forget this day, Ann. This was how your father arrived that time, and from then on I had to think of him as gone from my life. So today it is the same with your brother. He is following in the footsteps of Master.” Annelies did not respond. “So be it. Because of this, Ann, you must be strong. You must be strong, otherwise you will become a plaything, and will be played with by people like him. Stop crying. Do you want to follow your father and brother?” “Mama, I want to be with you, Mama.”

Annelies was struck silent on seeing Nyai suffer her greatest disappointment.

The horse in front of the house weighed. Robert came out of his room in clean clothes, neat and dashing. He walked out of the house quickly, paying no attention to his mother, sister, and Darsam.

He made no attempt to tie up the horse either. He just walked away.

Since that day Nyai's eldest son hardly ever set foot in his family's house.

I woke up at nine o'clock in the morning with my head aching. There was a throbbing and pounding above my eyes. It was as if a palakia tree seed had, unbeknownst to me, penetrated my skin, and was now growing roots in my brain in order to turn itself into a tree inside my head.

And I remembered the newspaper reports hailing the most powerful medicine discovered in the history of humanity, a medicine that would do away with headaches forever. They said the Germans had discovered it, and it was called aspirin. But so far it was no more than a report. It was not yet to be found in the Indies, or at least I didn't know of it. Indies, a country that can do nothing but wait upon the products of Europe!

Mrs. Telinga had compressed my head several times with brown-onion vinegar. The whole room smelled of vinegar. “Perhaps there's a letter for me, ma'am?” “Ha, only now Young Master asks about letters. Before, you were never interested in reading them. You've changed. Perhaps, though, there is one. The person was here a while ago. I said you were sleeping. I don't know his name. Perhaps he has gone. I said to him: Young Master Minke is now staying at Wonokromo, isn't he? He didn't seem to take any notice, but rather took leave to visit next door for a moment, to Marais's house."

The boarding house was still. The other boarders had all left for school.

And that good-hearted woman pulled the table over close to my bed, then put some hot chocolate and fried coconut patties on it. “What would Young Master like to eat today?” “Does ma'am have shopping money?” “If I run out, I can always ask Young Master for more, yes?” “Perhaps a police officer has recently been here asking about me?” “There was somebody. Not a police officer. A young man of Young Master's age. I thought he was a friend of yours, so I told him what had happened.” “Indo, Pure European, or Native?” “Native.”

I didn't question her further. I reckoned he was none other than that same police officer. “So what will Young Master eat tonight?”

"Macaroni soup, ma'am." “Good. This is the first time you've wanted macaroni soup. Do you know how much one packet costs? Five cents, Young Master. So …” “Two packets will be enough, no doubt.”

She laughed, relaxing when she received the shopping money of fifteen cents, then rushed hurriedly back to her kingdom: the kitchen.

That morning everything was still. Occasionally the bell of a passing buggy could be heard. It was only within my mind that there was great activity:

Murderers and future murderers formed long lines with all sorts of faces, all sorts of figures. Even Magda Peters appeared in my mind with a threatening, unsheathed dagger. Magda Peters—my favorite teacher! It was as if I had gone mad, just because of what someone had said. Come on, I shouldn't be so afraid of something whose truth and real context are so uncertain! I, an educated person? Even if the report was true, is it proper that I surrender to this accursed fear?

You will have suffered twice, Minke, if this report turns ^{A} ut to be true. First of all, you're already afraid. Secondly, you'll be killed. It's enough to suffer once, Minke. Once is enough. Get up then. Why must you suffer twice? You're too stupid to be called educated.

These thoughts made me laugh at myself. So I got up from the bed, stood tottering for a second, and started walking to the back of the house. Everything seemed to be moving. I grabbed for the back of a chair. I got my vision under control again and left the room. I didn't end up going out to the back but sat in the front room and began to try to read the newspapers.

My headache subsided somewhat, but the smell of the onion vinegar continued to be a real annoyance.

A pampered body, I said to myself.

Finally I did go out to the back and had a hot bath despite the protests of the garrulous Mrs. Telinga. How fond she was of me, that childless lady. She was an Indo who was more Native than European, without a single remaining trace of beauty, fat like a pillow. Even though her Dutch was terrible, it was still her day-to-day language; it was the language used by her family. She had never set foot in a school: illiterate. Her adopted child was a male mongrel dog. It was very clever at stealing fish from the market, which it would do two or three times a day. It brought the fish home to its adopted mother and she would grill it for the dog. After eating, the dog would go to sleep in the middle of the door, only to wake up and set off to steal again. This adopted child never barked at strangers, but would look them over with slowly blinking eyes as if waiting to be barked at first.

After getting dressed and combing my hair, I went to Jean Marais's house. The picture of May's mother fighting the soldier wasn't finished. He was putting an all-out effort into it. He wanted it to be his best work.

May sat on his lap enjoying being spoiled. She had missed me over the last few days. I usually brought her some sweets. This time there wasn't anything in my pockets. “We're not going for a walk, Uncle?” “I'm not feeling well, May.”

"You're pale, Minke," Jean Marais admonished me. “I didn't notice,” May said, using French too; then she got up from her father's lap and looked at me. “Yes, Uncle, you're pale.”

"Not enough sleep," I answered. “Since you moved to Wonokromo all sorts of things have been happening to you, Minke,” Jean reprimanded. “And you haven't been out looking for any new orders since then either.” “If you knew what I've been through recently, Jean, you wouldn't be able to bring yourself to talk like that. Truly.” “You're in trouble again,” he accused. “Your eyes aren't calm as they usually are.” “Come on, can you really know what's happened to somebody from their eyes?” “May, buy some cigarettes for me, please.”

And the little girl went outside.

"Now, Minke, tell me what troubles you now."

Naturally I told him of my suspicions about Fatso. That I felt there was somebody waiting for the opportunity to kill me (and there is only one of me!). That I felt that everywhere there were people spying on me, ready to swing their machetes into action against my body. “Just as I expected. This, of course, is the risk you face when you go to live in the house of a nyai. You once joined in condemning the nyais and their morality. And what did I say? Don't sit in judgment over something about whose truth you are uncertain. I suggested you visit there two or three times, to observe things as an educated person.” “I remember, Jean.” “Well, you have been there. But you didn't just visit, you stayed.” “Yes.” “You lived there not just to investigate how the common view of nyais matches with reality; you decided to act out that common view yourself—dragged down to a low and shameful level of moral behavior. Then you receive threats, who knows from whom. No doubt from that quarter with the most at stake: and whom you have now challenged. Now you fear someone is out to get you, Minke. But it is your own guilt that is pursuing you.” “What else Jean.” “Am I wrong?” “It's very possible you are right.” “Why only possible?” “That is, if it were true I had acted in the shameful manner you imply.” “So you haven't?” “No, not at all.” “At the very least I'm happy to hear that, Minke, my friend.” “And it's also clear that Nyai is no ordinary woman. She is educated, Jean. I think she's the first educated Native woman I have met in my life. Wonderful, Jean. Some day I'll take you there to meet her. We'll take May. She'd like it very much there. Truly.” “So why does someone want to kill you if you have done nothing wrong? You're educated, try to be true to your conscience. You are among the first of the educated Natives. Much is demanded of you. And if you can't deliver, the educated Natives after you will grow up more rotten than you yourself.”

"Quiet, Jean. Don't talk such nonsense. I'm in trouble." “It's only your imagination.”

May returned with a packet of corn-leaf cigarettes and Jean quickly started smoking. “You smoke too much, Jean.”

He only laughed. On that day my French friend did not make me happy at all. He was wrong. And I was being reproached with unfounded allegations. Father too had made similar accusations at the beginning of our meeting. Now Jean Marais seemed not to believe the truth of what I was saying: He too, in the end, suffered the old prejudices. He thought I'd been defeated, dragged down to shameful behavior. It felt as if there was no use in continuing the conversation.

I took May's hand and we went home together. We sat on the long bench on the front porch.

"Why don't you go to school, May?" “Papa likes me to wait on him while he paints.” “So what else do you do?” “Watch Papa paint, just watch.” “He doesn't talk to you?” “Of course he does. He said that under the clump of bamboo it should be cool because the wind whistles through all the time.

But that poor person being stamped on by the soldier, Uncle!?" She didn't know that the woman being trodden upon was her own mother. “Come on, May, sing!” The child straight away started singing her favorite song. “A French one, May. I already know all the Dutch songs.” “French?” She tried to remember. Then: “Ran, ran pata plan! Ran, plan, plan,” from “Joli Tambour.” “You're not listening, Uncle, come on!”

My eyes were observing a fat man wearing a sarong and sitting under a tamarind tree on the other side of the road, next to a chilled-fruit seller. He wore a peci, but wasn't wearing sandals, let alone shoes. His shirt was made of calico, and he wore loose, black trousers and a wide, leather belt. His shirt was unbuttoned. His figure and skin and his narrow, slanted eyes meant he could not fool me. Perhaps he was to be my future murderer. Fatso! Robert's man, now that he had failed in enlisting Darsam.

Every now and then, while eating his fruit, he glanced over at the two of us.

"Call Papa, May."

The little girl ran off. And Jean appeared with his tall, thin body, walking lamely on his armpit crutch. He sat down beside me. “I don't think I'm wrong, Jean, that's the one. He followed me from B----. Only his clothes are different now.” “Ssst. It's just your own imagination, Minke,” he scolded me instead.

Just at that moment Mr. Telinga arrived from somewhere. In one hand he was carrying a basket—who knows what its contents were—and in the other hand he held a length of steel pipe, obtained from who knows where. “Jean, Minke, what's going on? You two sitting out here together so early in the morning?” He greeted us in Malay. “It's like this.” Jean Marais began the story about my fears. Then he pointed with his chin to the man I reckoned was Fatso.

The new arrival put his basket down on the ground: It proved to be full of young kedondong fruit. The steel pipe remained in his hand. His wild eyes were aimed across the road. “Let me have a close-up look. Come on, Minke, you're the one who knows him. Perhaps it is him. Let me bash in his head if need be.” I walked along behind him and Jean Marais followed us, limping.

It became clearer as we approached that it was Fatso. He was no doubt spying on me that very moment. And he was pretending not to notice us coming closer. He went on enjoying his fruit, though I could see his eyes glance about vigilantly: That he was disguised only strengthened my suspicions.

"It's him all right," I said without hesitation.

Telinga approached him threateningly, the steel pipe still in his hand. I myself no longer knew what I wanted to do. Jean Marais was still limping along behind us. “Hey, man,” Telinga snapped in Javanese, “are you spying on my house?”

Fato pretended not to hear and continued eating. “So you're pretending not to hear, eh?” snapped the pensioned Indies army soldier, this time in Malay. He grabbed the plate of fruit and threw it on the ground.

It appeared that Fatso was not scared of Indos. He stood up, wiped his chili-paste-covered hand on a piece of tamarind trunk bark, swallowed down the remains of his fruit, bent over and washed his hands in the fruit-salad seller's bucket of water, and only then spoke, calmly, in High Javanese: “I am not spying on anything or anyone.” He tried to glance across at me and smiled.

What did he think he was doing? The impudence! He smiled at me. My future murderer! He smiled! “Get out of here,” shouted Telinga.

The fruit seller, an old woman, frightened, moved away. Some distance away people began to congregate, no doubt curious to know why a Native dared confront an Indo European. “I eat here almost every day, Ndoro Tuan.” “I've never seen you. Go! If not …” He swung the steel pipe about.

And Fatso was still not frightened. He didn't lift up his head and just bowed, his eyes wary. “There has never been any ban on eating here, Ndoro Tuan,” he retorted. “You dare argue back? Don't you know I'm Dutch and was in the Indies army?”

Fatso was no doubt a fighter. He wasn't afraid of an Indies army Dutchman. Perhaps he was a Malay-style fighter, or skilled in Chinese martial arts. “Even so, there is no police ban. There has not been any public announcement of any ban, Ndoro Tuan. Allow me to just sit here and eat my fruit. I haven't paid yet, either,” and he was about to sit down again.

I became suspicious when I heard him talk about bans. He knew about regulations. Telinga must be more careful. But the former Indies army soldier, who only knew of violence, had already swung his arm, striking towards the side of Fatso's head. Fatso parried the blow, but did not return the attack.

"Enough, enough." Jean Marais tried to intervene.

"Don't keep on, Ndoro Tuan," appealed Fatso.

Telinga lost his temper: This person dared defy him! He no longer cared who Fatso was. His pride had been wounded. His right hand swung a death blow down towards Fatso's head. And the rebel calmly moved out of its way. Telinga was thrown forward by his own blow as it missed its target. In fact Fatso could have easily punched Telinga in the ribs, but he didn't. Each time Fatso successfully avoided Telinga's blows, Telinga become angrier, and he attacked again and again. Fatso retreated, then retreated a little more, and then ran off. Telinga chased after him. Fatso disappeared down a narrow alley, where there were heaps of rubbish piled up.

"Telinga's crazy!" Jean Marais frowned. "He thinks he's still in the army."

And the person Jean was frowning at went off hunting after Fatso, and disappeared down the same alley.

"What's all this in aid of? Come on, let's go home, Minke. You're the cause of all this."

He wouldn't let me support him. May and Mrs. Telinga rushed about asking us what was happening. No one would tell them. The two of us sat and waited for the hothead to return. Anxiously, of course.

Ten minutes later, Mr. Telinga returned, bathed in sweat, red-faced and short of breath. He threw himself down into a canvas deck chair.

"Jan," his wife complained, "what's wrong with you? Have you forgotten that you're an invalid? Looking for enemies? Do you think you're still young?" She approached her husband, seized the pipe from his hand, and took it inside.

Mr. Telinga didn't speak. It was as if there was a secret agreement between us. And no one regretted all that had happened more than myself. Deep in my heart I thanked God that no catastrophe had happened. And I felt it was fortunate that I hadn't told them Darsam's story. I would have really been blamed for everything then.

"Young Master is still ill," called out Mrs. Telinga from inside. "Don't sit outside in the breeze. It's better you get some sleep. Food will be ready in a little while."

The three of us sat silently until Telinga had got his breath back.

"Let's forget everything that has happened," I proposed. What if the police became involved. I'd truly be the shameful cause of it all. "My head is aching again, Jean. Excuse me Mr. Telinga, Jean ..."

Once in my room I became even more convinced: It had been Fatso and he had been spying on me. He was obviously one of Robert's men. Darsam's story could not be dismissed as nonsense. Be careful, Minke!

For the first time ever, I locked my door and windows while it was daylight. I got ready a hard wooden stick, formerly a mop handle, and placed it in a corner. I could grab it at any moment. Even if only at a basic level, goatclass, we say in Malay, I too had studied self-defense when I was in T—.

Being an educated person, there was something I had to accept: Someone wanted to take my life, but I could not report it to the police. It would be unwise to involve Nyai and Annelies, or Father, who had just been made a bupati, or, most of all, Mother.

I had to face all this silently, but with vigilance.

Four days passed and my headache still did not disappear. I certainly wasn't getting enough sleep. And every day milk arrived. But there was no news from Darsam.

I had been away from school too long. The doctor had given me a certificate to stay away three weeks. The palakia seed had grown into a full-grown tree inside my head, without permission from its one and only legitimate owner, me. You're right, Palakia Tree in My Head, I have to forget Nyai and Annelies. I must cut all relations with them! There is no point in maintaining relations. Only trouble will come of them. My life would suffer no great loss. I would not catch leprosy by not knowing this strange and forbidding family. I must become well again. Go after orders as before. Write for the papers. Graduate from school as was hoped for by so many people. Whatever else, I still liked school. To mix openly with all my friends. To be free. Obtaining new, unlimited knowledge and learning. Absorbing everything from this earth of mankind from the past, the present, and the future. At the end of next month, Magda Peters was going to hold discussions, lighting up this earth of mankind from every possible angle. And I was ill like this.

I had wasted these emergency holidays: a clot of time packed with tension. Often I thought: Should someone as young as I have tension such as this? As often I replied: No, not yet. Miss Magda once told us the story of Multatuli and his friend, the poet-journalist Roorda van Eysinga: They lived in tension because of their beliefs and their struggles to improve the fate of the people of the Indies, against both all-European and all-Native oppression. For the sake of the peoples of the Indies, who knew nothing of the world, those two ended up in exile, without comrades who visited them, without a single hand stretched out in aid, Minke. Read Roorda van Eysinga's poem, written under the pseudonym Sen-tot, "The Last Days of the Hollanders in Java." Every word was filled with the tension of somebody calling out in warning.

Multatuli and van Eysinga came under great pressure because of profound actions. And the pressure that I was under today? Nothing more than the result of the stumblings of a philogynist.

I must let go of Annelies. I must be able to do it! But I still couldn't convince myself. A girl as beautiful as that! And Nyai—such an inspiring and impressive character—a regal woman of great powers of betwitchment. Yes, yes: "If attracted, no limits to one's praise; if hated, no limits to one's finding fault."

Slowly I began to understand: All this was the result of my reluctance to pay the price of entering the world of pleasure, the world where dreams become reality. Multatuli and van Eysinga paid the price but they wanted nothing for themselves. What do my writings mean compared to theirs? Everything I hope and lust after is for myself. The thought shamed me.

Yes, I must let go of Annelies. Adieu, ma belle! Happy separation, oh dream, which I'll never meet again, not at any time nor in any place. There are things more important than a girl's beauty and a Nyai's charisma. There is no point to a meaningless death. And my life and my body are my basic capital and the only life and body I have.

This decision chased away the headache, though not all at once. That's how all illness develops: It comes on suddenly, but disappears lazily. The palakia tree stopped spreading its roots ^{A} nd seedlings. Then they too died, but only because of the arrival of a letter from Miriam de la Croix. Her writing was fine and small, neat.

She wrote:

My friend, You have no doubt arrived in Surabaya safely by now. I've waited for news from you but none has arrived. So it is I who give in.

Don't be surprised, but Papa is very interested in you. He's already asked twice whether there have been any letters. Papa wants very much to know how you're progressing. He was impressed by your attitudes. You, he said, were a different type of Javanese, made from different material, a pioneer and innovator at one and the same time.

I write this letter gladly. Indeed, I feel honored that I am able to pass on Papa's opinions. Mir, Sarah, he said to us another time, that will be the face of Java in the future, a Java which has absorbed itself into our civilization, no longer shriveling up like a worm struck by the sun. Excuse him, Minke, if Papa uses such a coarse metaphor. He does not intend to insult. You're not angry, are you? Don't be angry, my friend. Neither Papa nor the two of us have any evil thoughts towards Natives and especially not towards yourself.

Papa feels moved when he sees how the Javanese people have fallen so low. Listen to what Papa has also said, even though he still uses that earlier coarse metaphor: Do you know what is needed by this nation of worms? A leader who can give them dignity once again.

Do you follow me, my friend? Don't get angry before you know what I mean.

Not all Europeans have been participants in, and causes of, the fall of your people. Papa, for example, even though he is an assistant resident, is not one of them. Indeed, he is unable to do anything, just as Sarah and I are also unable to do anything, though we all desire so greatly to stretch out our hands to help. We can only guess now at what we must do. You yourself are fond of Multatuli, aren't you? That writer, so glorified by the radicals, has indeed been of great service to your people. Yes, Multatuli, as well as Domine Baron von Hoevell and another person also, whom your teacher perhaps forgot to tell you about, that is, Roorda van Eysinga. But all these people never spoke to the Javanese, only to their own people, the Dutch. They asked Europe to treat your people properly.

But now, says Papa, at the close of the nineteenth century, nothing that they did is of use today. According to Papa, it is the Natives themselves who must now act. So when we talked about Dr. Snouck Hurgronje that day, it was no coincidence. That particular scholar holds an honored place in the thinking of our family. We praise Association Theory, at which you laughed that day. So please understand, my friend, why Papa is so interested in you. Indeed, Papa, and the two of us too, had never met a Javanese like you. You, he said, were totally European. You showed no sign of the slave mentality that the Javanese developed during the era of their defeat, from the time the Europeans set foot on this, the land of your birth.

On those still nights in this big and empty building, if Papa is not tired, we like so much to sit and listen to his explanations about the fate of your people. How they gave birth to hundreds and thousands of leaders and heroes in their struggle against European oppression. One by one they fell, defeated, killed, surrendering, gone mad, dying in humiliation, forgotten in exile. Not one was ever victorious in war. We listened and were moved, and became angry also to hear how your rulers sold concessions to the Company, benefiting no one but themselves. It was a sign that their character and souls were being corroded. Your heroes, according to Papa's stories, always emerged out of a background of selling concessions to the Company; and so it was over and over again, for centuries, and no one understood that it was all a repetition of what had gone before, and that as time went on the rebellions became smaller and more and more stunted. And such is the fate of a people who have thrown all their body and soul and all their material. wealth into saving a single abstract concept called honor.

According to Papa, the fate of humanity now and in the future is dependent on its mastery over science and learning. All humanity, both as individuals and as peoples, will come tumbling down without such mastery. To oppose those who have mastered science and learning is to surrender oneself to humiliation and death.

So Papa agrees with Association Theory, that is the one and only road for Natives. He hopes, and so too do both of us, that one day in the future you will sit together, as an equal with Europeans, in advancing this people and this country. You have already begun this yourself. You understand what I mean. We love our father very much. He is not simply a father, but also a teacher who leads us in our efforts to see and understand the world. He is a friend, a mature man with great authority, an administrator who hopes for no profit from the woes and tribulations of those under him.

Let me tell you what he said after you left us following that first visit. You left feeling angry and irritated, didn't you? We could understand because we knew that you didn't understand our intentions. Papa left us alone on purpose, so you could speak freely with us. But a pity, you were so formal and tense. As soon as you left, Papa asked us our opinion of you. Sarah reported: Minke became angry in the end, Dr. Snouck Hurgronje and his Association Theory were three hundred years behind the times, repeated just as you had said. Papa was surprised and had to ask me to explain further. Then Papa said: He is proud to be a Javanese, and that is good as long as he has self-respect as an individual as well as a child of his race. He mustn't become like the general run of his people; when among themselves they feel as if they are from a race which has no equal on the earth. But as soon as they are near a European, even just one, they shrivel up, lacking the courage even to lift up their eyes.

I agree with this praise of you, my friend. May things go well for you.

Then from the wayang orang performance building, gamelan music began to waft across to us. Papa had ordered us to study your people's music. You have studied gamelan for a long time now, he said to us, and perhaps you can already enjoy it. Listen to how all the tones wait upon the sound of the gong. That is how it is in Javanese music, but that is not how it is in real life, because this pathetic people has still not found their gong, a leader, a thinker who can come forth with words of resolution.

My friend, I ask with all my heart that you try to understand these words, which you will obtain nowhere else except from my father, not even from the great scholar Snouck Hurgronje. That is why we are so proud to have a father like him. Papa is sure that the reason you like gamelan better than European music is because you were born and brought up under the swaying sounds of your great gamelan.

Minke, my friend, when will Life's gong sound? Will you perhaps be the one? The great gong? May we pray for you?

Listen again to the gamelan, said Papa once more. It has been that way for centuries. And the gong in the life of the Javanese has still not arrived. The gamelan sings of a people's longing for a messiah. Just longing after him, not seeking him out, not giving birth to him. The game-lan translates the life of the Javanese, a people who are unwilling to seek, to search, who just circle around, repeating, as in prayers and mantras, suppressing, killing thought, carrying people into a dispirited universe, which leads them astray, where there is no character. Those are the views of Europeans, my friend. No Javanese, not one, would think like that. Papa also says that if things remain like this for another twenty years this people will never find their messiah.

My friend, what will your so-saddening-a-people look like twenty years from now? One day in the future, we will go home to the Netherlands. I will go into politics, Minke. It's a pity though that the Netherlands still doesn't allow a woman to sit in the Lower House. I have a dream, my friend, that one day, when it is no longer as it is now and I can become an Honorable Member of the ^{A}

Lower House, I will speak much about your country and your people. And when I return to Java I will, first of all, listen once again to your gamelan, a gamelan whose beautiful unity of sound has no equal on earth. If its theme is just the same, a longing without effort, it means no messiah has yet arrived or has yet been born. It also means that you have not yet emerged as a gong, or indeed no Javanese ever will, and your people will drown forever in the overflow of repeated tones and vicious circles. If change has taken place, I will seek you out, and hold out my hand in respect.

Friend, twenty years! That is such a very long time in this pounding, racing era; and it is, of course, also a long time if looked at as part of somebody's life. My friend Minke, this is the first letter from your sincere and well-wishing friend,

Miriam de la Croix.

As I folded up the letter I knew that tears had left blue smudges here and there where the ink had run. Why had a letter from a girl whom I had met only twice in my life made me cry? She was neither kith nor kin, not even of the same race. She had such hopes for me. While there I was totally confused because of my recent mistakes at Wonokromo. She wants me to be of value to my own people, not to her people. Is it possible there is now a new style of Multatuli and van Eysinga?

How should such a beautiful letter be answered? I had begun to consider myself a writer and had been praised by Mr. Maarten Nijman, Chief Editor of S.N.v/dD, but I felt too small to be able to equal Miriam's thoughts. Still I forced myself to answer. Thank you, and no more than thank you, poured out in so very many words, perhaps just like the pouring out of Javanese musical tones that separately headed for and -Waited upon the gong. In the letter I sated my astonishment that Multatuli and Eysinga, whom I had just been thinking about, should be mentioned in her letter. Perhaps, I wrote, because we live in the same liberal era, in the same era, and I ended my letter with:

My good friend Miriam, I am so lucky to have found a friend such as you. I do not know what is going to happen in the next twenty years. I myself have never felt that I would ever become a gong. Neither had I ever dreamed of being even a drum; I have never had such thoughts, perhaps would never have had such thoughts had your beautiful and moving letter not arrived. Especially as it has come from someone who is not of my people. Peace and well-being be with you, my sincere Miriam. May you indeed one day become an Honorable Member of the Lower House.

I rested my face on the table. I tried to absorb all of Miriam's letter, trying to ensure I would never forget it as long as I lived. Friendship is indeed beautiful. And my headache slipped away and slipped away, and then disappeared altogether, who knows to where. Miriam, you did not just send a letter. More than that: a charm to rid me of tension. If only you knew: Suddenly I felt brave, and the world became brighter and clearer. Become a gong to be heard booming out everywhere.

"Young Master!" I raised my head. On seeing the person in front of me the tree in my head returned, spreading its roots and seedlings. But now more vigorously. Him. Darsam.

"Excuse me, Young Master. I must have surprised you, you're so pale."

I tried to smile, my eyes darting to his machete and his hands. He laughed in a friendly manner while stroking his mustache.

"Young Master suspects me," he said, "when Darsam is Young Master's friend."

"So what's the matter?" I asked, pretending not to know anything.

"A letter from Nyai. Noni is very ill."

I started and my eyes opened wide. He stood across from me.

I read the letter while every now and then glancing across at his machete and his hand. Yes, it was true, Annelies was very ill and was being looked after by Dr. Martinet. Nyai had told him of the origins of her illness, and she requested very strongly that I come quickly. This was also advised by the doctor. Dr. Martinet said that without my presence Annelies had no hope of recovery; and her illness would probably get worse and there would be complications.

My head throbbed as if it wanted to break open. I couldn't stand up straight; my body went flabby. I quickly grabbed for the corner of the table. With my shaky vision I gazed at the fighter. Darsam grabbed me by the shoulder.

"Don't be concerned. Sinyo Robert will not be able to worry you. Darsam still stands vigilant. Come."

Miriam de la Croix vanished, evaporated into smoke, disappeared from circulation. The magical power of Wonokromo had regained control over everything. Aided by Darsam, these legs of mine carried me to the buggy waiting in front of the house.

"You're not going to take leave from the people here?"

I came to a halt. I called out to Mrs. Telinga that I was excusing myself and was leaving. She stood at the door and did not seem at all happy.

"Don't be away long, Young Master," she reminded me. "Your health."

"Young Master will recover quickly at Wonokromo," answered Darsam.

Afraid of Darsam's frightening appearance, she didn't say anything more.

"Where are your things, Young Master?"

I didn't answer. And I never found out whether I fainted in the buggy or not. All I knew was that all this had occurred as a result of Robert Suurhof's invitation, and now so many people had become involved and this young life of mine had become so tense. All the time I heard just one voice, one sentence emerging from the Madurese fighter's mouth: "This carriage and this horse are henceforth Young Master's property."