This Earth of Mankind

This Earth of Mankind

Pramoedya Ananta Toer et al.

As soon as Darsam led me up the stairs, Nyai Ontosoroh came rushing out to greet me.

"You've gone too far, Nyo, we've been waiting and waiting so long for you. Annelies has fallen very ill longing for you!"

"Young Master was also ill, Nyai. I had to carry him here."

"No matter. If the two of them get together again, everything will be all right. The sickness will disappear."

Those words were so embarrassing, yet it already felt like they had started to work as an antitoxin, dissolving away the palakia in my head. Nyai caught me by the shoulder and whispered softly in my ear, smiling.

"Yes, your temperature is a bit high. No matter. Let's go upstairs, child. Your little sister has had to wait too long. You didn't even send news."

She spoke so gently, it went straight to my heart. It. was as if she was my own mother, my beloved mother, and I no other than her little boy, under her guidance. Yet my eyes kept glancing about here and there. At any moment Robert could leap out of the darkness and thrust a knife into me with those mighty muscles of his.

"Where is Robert, Mama?" I asked, as we climbed the stairs.

"Sst. You don't need ask that. He's his father's son."

Why did I become so malleable in the hands of this woman? Like a lump of clay that could be molded just as she wished? Why was there no fight in me? Even the will to fight was missing, as if she understood and had mastery over my inner self, and could lead me in the direction I myself desired?

The upstairs was far more luxurious. Almost all the floors of the corridor were covered with carpet. It felt as if I were a cat who could walk along without making a single sound. The open windows offered views that stretched far away out there into the distance. Paddies and fields and forest spread out everywhere, joined together one after the other. A small group of people were collecting the last of the harvest. The remaining paddy was still fallow, awaiting the beginning of the end of autumn.

The newspapers reported that there had been an abundant harvest that year. There was no need to import low-quality rice from Siam, even though the most fertile rice lands of east and central Java were, to all intents and purposes, producing only sugar. It was a sign, said one observer, that Queen Wilhelmina had been blessed by God as the youngest queen ever, at an age very young for a queen.

We stood in front of the bed. Nyai fixed the blanket that lay over Annelies. That girl's breasts stood out underneath the blanket. And Nyai put her daughter's hand into mine.

"Annelies, darling."

With great effort the girl opened her eyes. She didn't turn. She didn't look. Her eyes, and that effort-filled look, were swept up to the ceiling, then they closed again.

"Minke. Nyo, child, take care of my sweetheart here," whispered Nyai. "If you too are sick, then get well now. Carry my child to recovery with you." It sounded as if she was praying.

She looked at me with almost begging eyes.

"It's up to you, child. As long as my daughter recovers. . . You're educated. You know what I mean." She bowed down as if embarrassed to look at me. Her two hands held my arm. All of a sudden she turned and left the room.

I felt for Annelies's hands under the blanket. Cold. I brought my mouth close to her ear and called her name again and again, slowly. She smiled, but her eyes remained closed. Her temperature was not too high. And I knew then: The palakia tree inside my head had been flung out, plucked out with all its roots and seeds, crashing down to who knows where.

And she was so close to me. My heart began to pound rapidly, pumping hot blood all over my body, and I began to perspire.

"Come on, haven't you been waiting for Minke to come?"

I didn't know whether it was just my imagination, or if it really happened, but I saw her nod weakly. Her eyes and mouth remained closed.

"Do you miss him, Ann? Of course you miss him. He misses you too. Truly. If you only knew how much he longs to be always near you, Ann, to make you the adornment of his life, all the world would then be his, because his happiness is you, you alone. Open your eyes, Ann, because Minke is here now, with you."

I heard Annelies sigh. Her eyes and lips remained closed.

Doesn't this girl recognize my voice anymore? So I caressed her face, her cheeks, her hair. She tilted her head and sighed once more. Was she going to die? A girl as beautiful as this? I embraced her and I kissed her on her lips. The beat of the heart in her breast seemed too slow. Her fingers moved slowly, almost stilled.

"Ann, Annelies!" I finally cried into her ear. "Wake up, Ann," and I shook her shoulders.

She opened her eyes and stared far into the distance, not seeing, and not reaching my face.

"Don't you know me anymore, Ann? Me? Minke?"

She smiled. But she still stared right through me.

"Ann, Ann, don't be like this. Aren't you happy now Minke is back? I've come. Or must I go again and leave you? Ann, Ann, my Annelies!"

She must not die here in my embrace. I stood before the bed and wiped sweat from my dripping forehead.

"Keep going, Nyo," Nyai encouraged me from the door. "Keep asking her to talk. That's exactly what Dr. Martinet advised."

I turned. Nyai was pulling the door shut from outside. Her encouragement calmed my anxiety. Annelies was'not facing death. She just wasn't conscious.

I sat on the edge of the bed. Her eyes were open but she didn't see anything.

"You can't go on like this, Ann," I said, trying to convince myself as well. I pulled back her blanket. I pulled her up by her two hands. I forced her to sit up. But her body was so weak it fell back upon the pillow as soon as I let go of her. I tried again. She still couldn't sit up.

What must I do now?

Once again I kissed her upon her lips. Her hands began to move almost imperceptibly, but a little more than they had done a minute ago. I shifted her head across to my left arm. I began again to try to get her to talk.

"If you're sick like this, who'll help Mama? There is no one else. So you mustn't be ill. You must get better. So that you can work, and go walking with me. We can go riding, Ann, all around Surabaya."

I looked into her eyes, which stared off into the distance, and I could see myself in the depth of her eyes. But she still didn't see me. For a moment I thought my face was not even reflected in her eyes.

Nyai Ontosoroh came back, carrying two glasses of warm milk. One glass she put on the table. The other she brought over to me and put it up to my lips so that I would drink it down quickly.

"Drink it all up, Nyo, child, Minke." I drank until it was finished and the glass was dry. "You must be healthy and strong too. A weak and ill person is of no use to anybody." Then to Annelies: "Wake up, Ann, Minke is here with you now. Who else are you waiting for?"

Without waiting to see whether there was any reaction from Annelies, she left again.

There had been no change in the situation the next time Nyai returned, but this time she came with Dr. Martinet. I put Anne-lies's head down on the pillow in order to be able to greet him.

"This is Minke, Doctor, who has been looking after Annelies today," and we shook hands. Nyai observed us for a moment, then she continued, "Excuse me, I must go downstairs."

"So you are Mr. Minke, the H.B.S. student? Excellent. Happy is any young man who obtains so deep a love from so beautiful a girl," he said in mumbled Dutch.

"I have only been here an hour, Doctor. This was how An-nelies was when I arrived. I'm worried, Doctor."

The forty-year-old man let go a laugh, shook his head, and shook my shoulders.

"You like this girl? Answer frankly."

"Yes, I do, Doctor."

"You have no intention of playing foul with her, eh?" He fixed his gaze squarely upon me.

"Why would I do that?"

"Why? Because H.B.S. students have always been the favorites of the girls. It has always been like that, ever since the schools were founded. In Batavia too, and Semarang also. I repeat, Mr. Minke, you have only honorable intentions?" Seeing that I remained quiet, he went on: "There is only one thing needed by this girl: you, Mr. Minke. She has everything she needs, except you."

I bowed my head. Confusion filled my breast. I had no intention of manipulating Annelies. But neither had I ever intended becoming serious about any girl. Now Annelies wanted all of me, totally, for herself. I was being tested by my own deeds. And it was my conscience that made me affirm things of which I was not yet really convinced.

"You want her to regain consciousness?"

"Of course, Doctor, I would like it very much, and would be very grateful if you make her better."

"She will regain consciousness. I have been drugging her and waiting for you to arrive. So it is your fault that she has been drugged for so long. If I had left her conscious without you here, there is no telling what would have happened. If you hadn't come back and I was forced to keep her drugged, it would have damaged her heart. It all comes back to you—you are the cause of it all."

"Forgive me."

"She has chosen you to be the one to accept all the risks."

I didn't respond. And he kept talking.

"She will be conscious again soon. About another quarter of an hour. When she starts showing signs of waking, you must begin talking to her, just pleasant, happy things. Don't speak harshly or roughly. Everything depends on you. Don't disappoint her. Don't make her lose confidence or become afraid."

"Very well, Doctor."

"You passed this year's exams?"

"Yes, Doctor."

"Congratulations. Wait on her until the drugs wear off. What is your family name, if I may ask?"

"I have none, Doctor."

He cleared his throat. His eyes swept over my face for just a moment. Then he went over to the window, and looked out onto the fields and the garden beside the house.

"Come over here," he invited without turning.

And I stood beside him at the window.

"Why do you hide your family name?"

"I don't have one."

"What is your Christian name?"

"I don't have one, Doctor."

"How is it possible that you're in the H.B.S. and have neither family nor Christian name? You don't mean to tell me that you're a Native?"

"Yes, I'm a Native, Doctor."

He glanced at me. He stood silently for quite a while, perhaps trying to convince his own heart of something.

"One more question, if I may. Do you feel you can remain friendly and sincere with Annelies?"

"Of course."

"Forever."

"Why, Doctor?"

"Have pity on this child. She cannot face violence or harshness. She dreams of someone who will love her, who will give her pure love. She feels like she is living alone, by herself, without knowing the world. She has put all her hopes for the future in you, Mr. Minke."

He was no doubt exaggerating.

"She has a mother who guides her, educates her, who loves her," I said.

"She doesn't fully believe that her mother's love will last. She waits in anticipation for that moment when her mother will explode and reject her."

"Mama is a very wise woman, Doctor."

"That cannot be denied. But Annelies cannot convince herself of that. Possibly, secretly, Annelies sees her mother as being more attached to the business than to her. This is just between the two" of us. No one else need know of this conversation. You understand."

He was silent again for quite a while. Suddenly:

"So you understand?"

"I think so."

"There must not be any hard, harsh, disappointing words. She loves you. I speak to you like this, first of all, because Native men are not used to treating their women gently and politely, as friends and with sincerity, at least as far as I know, according to what I've heard and read. You have studied European civilization, so you no doubt know the difference between the attitudes of European and Native men towards women. If you are the same as most other Natives, this child will not live long. Quite frankly she could fall into a living death. If it came about, if, I say, you married her, would you take a second woman at some later stage?"

"Marry her?"

"Yes, that is what she dreams of. That you will marry her, yes? You're in your last year at school, aren't you?"

"I've no desire to propose yet, Doctor."

"If necessary I will propose on your behalf in order to save this girl."

I couldn't say anything.

"So you will marry her and will not take a second woman." He put out his hand to obtain the certainty of a promise from my lips.

I took his hand. I had never intended to take more than one wife. I always remembered the words of my grandmother: Every man who takes more than one wife is a liar, and will certainly become a liar whether he wants to or not.

"Her heart is too soft, too gentle. She can't cope with hurt. You must always humor, caress, protect her. It seems her self has been taken from her."

"Taken from her?"

"By someone very close to her."

"Who, Doctor?"

"I don't know. You will find out for yourself. Something around here, for certain. There are many secret, suppressed problems within her young heart. She lives, in fact, as 'an orphan. She

l

feels permanently dependent. Even here in her own private world, there is no one she can rely on. She needs someone who will support her. Having grown up in the middle of wealth, she doesn't appreciate the security it gives. For her, wealth is nothing. That is what I can understand about this child. You're listening, yes?"

Dr. Martinet took his monocle out of his top pocket and put it in his right eye. After looking at his watch, he stared at me.

"Thank you for listening so earnestly. Look at the calm and peaceful view from here. It is lucky that this girl lives in the middle of luxury and peace. I don't know what would happen otherwise."

The palakia tree seed in my head was replaced by another type of seed: suspicion. What did the doctor really mean?

"Excuse me. I'm not a psychologist. I've spoken a lot with her mother — an amazing woman. She is a mature and civilized person. She has real strength of character, reinforced by the hardness of someone with revenge still in her heart. Just for her, as a woman, to be so educated, is extraordinary. Even in Europe it would be an astounding feat. I don't think she has developed in this way consciously. One or indeed many experiences have been the motor behind these changes. I don't know what they might have been. Her heart is very hard, her mind very sharp, but in all this it is her own success in all her endeavors that has made her into such a strong individual, and so daring. But she has one big failure in a certain matter. It's understandable: Every self-educated person has a failure that stands out."

Dr. Martinet didn't continue. He hoped that I would seek for myself the meaning of his words.

"She's beginning to regain consciousness, your Annelies," he said all of a sudden. He looked over towards her, left me, and approached his patient. He checked her pulse, then he waved to me. "Yes, Mr. Minke. In a few minutes she will return to being the Annelies you knew before. May she return to complete health now that you are here again. From this moment on, this girl is no longer my patient but yours. Everything I have told you is between us alone. Good afternoon."

He left the room, closed the door behind him, and disappeared from sight.

Now the moment had arrived when I could feel sorry for myself. Yes! One after the other over these last few days new experiences had fallen upon and rocked me. And now there was a new one that I had to face: Annelies.

Great artists, Minke, said Jean Marais once, whether they are painters or something else, or leaders, or generals, become great because their life has been crammed with and based upon profound, intense experiences: emotional, spiritual, or physical. He had said this after I had finished telling him the life story of the Dutch poets Vondel and Multatuli. Without such profound experiences, greatness is purely imaginary: Their greatness is whistled up by the money-minded people of the world.

Jean Marais did not know that my own writings had begun to be published. If his words are true, I thought, maybe one day I could become a great writer like Hugo, as Nyai hoped. Or a leader, or a teacher of a nation as hoped by the de la Croix family. Or perhaps I will end up as rotting flesh just as Robert Mellema (if Darsam's story was true) and Fatso planned.

Annelies sighed and moved her finger. She will be all right; I will not have to watch her die. I moved away and sat on a chair where I could watch her. Even ill she was gloriously beautiful: Her skin was fine, her nose, eyebrows, lips, teeth, ears, hair . . . everything. And I began to doubt Dr. Martinet's explanation of Annelies's psychology. Could such a beautiful body house such a disordered mind? And I—an outsider, just an acquaintance—must I also accept some responsibility for her just because of her beauty? Creole beauty. How involved my life was becoming! The result of my own actions as a philogynist.

"Mama!" uttered Annelies. Now her legs began to move.

"Ann!"

She opened her eyes and continued to gaze off into the faraway distance. From this moment on she was my patient; that's what Dr. Martinet had said. I held back my laughter, understanding that I was now the doctor who must cure her.

I took the milk from the table. I raised her head with my arm and poured a little milk into her mouth. She began to sip it and smacked her lips a little.

Yes, she was beginning to regain consciousness. I gave her some more to drink. She began to swallow.

"Ann, my Annelies, drink it all up," I said and I gave her some more to drink.

She took one swallow after another.

Nyai entered carrying lunch for two people. ^{A}

"Why are you doing it yourself, Mama?"

"It's not that. No one else is allowed to come up here. So the doctor was right—she is beginning to wake up now."

"Almost, Mama."

"Yes, Minke, the doctor said only you can look after her now. It's up to you," and she went out again.

Annelies opened her eyes again and began to look at me.

"What's wrong with you, Ann?"

She didn't answer, but just gazed at me. I put her head down on the pillow again. The beautiful shape of her nose pulled my hand over to stroke it. The ends of her hair were brown and her eyebrows were lush, as if they had been fertilized before she was born. And her eyelashes, so long and curly, made her eyes seem like a pair of morning stars in a clear sky, her countenance itself the clearest sky of all.

Where else on this earth of mankind could one discover such perfect Creole beauty, such a beautifully harmonious form? God has created such a thing only once and only in this one body in front of me. I will never let go of you, Ann, whatever is going on inside you. I am ready to face whatever and whomever.

The girl still just looked at me, her gaze focused on the tip of my nose. She still hadn't spoken. Her eyes blinked so slowly. Yet her beauty was still profound, greater than all those things that have been made by man, richer than all the combined and individual meanings to be found in the treasuries of the languages. She was a gift from Allah, without equal, unique. And she was mine alone.

"Arise and awaken, Flower of Surabaya! Do you not know? Alexander the Great, Napoleon, all would fall to their knees to gain your love. To touch your skin they would sacrifice their nations, their people. Awaken, My Flower, because the world is a lesser place without you," and without knowing it I was kissing her on the lips, and then became fully conscious of what I was doing.

The long breath she expelled blew over my face. Her lips smiled. Her eyes too. But she still could not speak. So I kept on with my chatter, like Solomon praising the virgins of Israel: chin, breasts, cheeks, legs, the look in her eyes, her eyes themselves, neck hair — everything, all of her. I stopped only after I heard:

"Mas!"

"Ann, my Annelies!" I said, cutting her off, "you're better now. Come on, get up. Let's walk. Come on, my goddess."

She began to move. Her hand waved to me. And I responded to that hand.

"Let me carry you," and I carried her. Yes, I carried her. And I wasn't strong enough. What sort of body was this, incapable of even carrying a girl! I put her down. Her legs stepped forward, shaking; her body swayed. I supported her. To the devil with chairs, table, and bed. I took her to the window where a minute ago I had stood with Dr. Martinet and where he had appointed me her doctor. A vast panorama of fields opened up before us. And the sun had already begun to leave its midday position.

"Look over there, Ann, the forest is the limit of our view. And the mountains, and the sky, and the earth. You see, Ann? Do you really see it" all?"

She nodded. The wind whistled as it launched a gusty attack from out of that great expanse of nature, and it felt as if it was being channeled into that one window. Annelies shuddered.

"Are you cold, Ann?"

"No."

"You should get some more sleep."

"I want to be close to you, like now, Mas. It was such a long time, and you still didn't come."

"I'm here now, Ann."

"Don't let go of me, Mas."

"You're cold standing here."

"I'm warm enough now. The forest seems different somehow. And the wind too. And the mountains. The birds also."

"You're well now, Ann. You're beginning to be strong again."

"I don't want to be ill. I'm not ill. I was only waiting for you to come."

I no longer felt ill either, Ann, had you wanted to know. Something made me turn and through a small opening in the door I saw Nyai and Dr. Martinet. They didn't enter. Then the door closed again.

The school director excused my absence, which went over the period allowed in my doctor's certificate. The greetings I passed on from Herbert de la Croix softened his attitude. For several days I worked hard to catch up on my studies. It was easy. My grandfather had taught me that if you believe you will be successful in all your studies, then you will be successful; if you think of all study as easy, all will be easy. Be afraid of no kind of study, because such fear is the original ignorance that will make you ignorant of everything.

I followed his advice; I believed in the truth of his wise words. I never fell behind in my studies, even though, yes, even though I did not study as hard as the others. But now I really studied hard, to catch up on what I had missed during the last few weeks.

A carriage and driver had been put aside by Mama especially for me. Night and day. And each time I left for school in my new vehicle I picked up May Marais to drop her off at her school in Simpang.

Everything had changed. Especially, and most of all, myself.

I now felt like a man of real substance as I sat in my luxury buggy in the middle of Surabaya's traffic. It was easy to see too that my friends at school had also changed. Meaning: They seemed to be, and probably indeed were, distancing themselves from me. I interpreted all this as a sign of respect towards someone who has just scored a rise in his marks. It was possible I might have been wrong in this estimation of my position, so I looked upon it as provisional only. My teachers, now that I traveled by luxury carriage, seemed to treat me as someone they didn't know but who was of equal status. This too was a provisional guess.

I felt I was no longer the old Minke. My body was the same, but its contents and its perceptions were new. I no longer liked to joke. There was more to me now than that. I was more thoughtful, while my friends at school were still childish. I no longer wanted simply to float on the surface of problems—in every conversation and discussion I wanted to dive straight down to the bottom of every problem.

See, even Robert Suurhof still didn't want to approach me. He always moved away if we passed near each other. And the girls at the school avoided me too, as if I were the source of some plague.

Several times the school director summoned me to get assurances that I had not already married, because a student must leave the school once he is married. I think it was Suurhof who was doing the talking. It could have been no one else. He alone knew what had happened. Eventually I found out for certain that my guess was not wrong. He'd spread rumors, inciting my friends against me. (So my estimation of myself was wrong after all!). The looks directed at me were from people I felt I no longer knew.

Everything had changed. Now, all around me at school, there was no enveloping aura of brightness, but only loneliness, a loneliness that called and summoned me to reflection.

The only teacher who did not change was Miss Magda Peters, the Dutch language and literature teacher. She still hadn't married. All over her exposed skin there were brown freckles. Her clear brown eyes were always sparkling. At first her appearance tended to make you laugh. She struck me as looking like a white, female monkey with an ever-surprised face. But then as we listened to her first lesson, we all became quiet. The impression of a white, female monkey disappeared. Her freckles vanished. A feeling of respect replaced all this. And here are her words, when, in her fi ^{A} st class since traveling down from the Netherlands to the Indies, she said:

"Good afternoon, students of H.B.S. Surabaya. My name is Magda Peters, your new teacher for Dutch language and literature. Please put up your hands if you don't like literature."

Almost everyone put up their hands. There were even some who stood up to show their antipathy.

"Excellent. Thank you. Please sit down everybody. Even the people of the most primitive society—in the heart of Africa, for example—who have never sat in school, never seen a book in their life, who don't know how to read and write, are still able to love literature, even if only oral literature. Isn't it an outstanding achievement that after at least ten years in school, H.B.S. students still do not like literature and language? Yes, it's truly outstanding."

No one laughed and there was nothing to laugh at. Total silence.

"You will all advance through school. Perhaps you will obtain a string of all sorts of degrees, but without a love of literature, you'll remain just a lot of clever animals. Most of you have never seen the Netherlands. I was born and brought up there. So I know that every Hollander loves and reads Dutch literature. People love and honor the paintings of van Gogh, Rembrandt—our own and the world's great painters. They who do not love and honor them and who do not learn to love and honor them are considered to be uncivilized. Painting is literature in colors. Literature is painting in language. Put up your hand if you don't understand."

To make sure we weren't classified as uncivilized, from that moment on we all knew we would have to concentrate on the teacher's every word. She had us in the palm of her hand.

And Miss Magda Peters's attitude towards me never changed. She must surely have heard the rumors whispered by Robert Suurhof.

It was generally Magda Peters who opened the Saturday afternoon discussions. She did this not just happily but with great enthusiasm. Every student could put forward any topic — general or personal, local news or international developments — as the afternoon's subject. If no student had anything to put forward, only then would the teacher choose the subject. Students were not obliged to attend if they weren't interested. The most popular discussions were those led by Magda Peters. No one wanted to miss out, and so the discussion had to be held in the hall with the students sitting on the floor. Only the speaker would stand. The teachers also sat on the floor. The teacher leading the discussion would also stand. On those occasions, one could see that freckles covered all of Magda Peters's body.

In order to place my situation and my attitudes in context, so that you may judge the truth or otherwise of my views about myself and my surroundings, I think it is proper that I tell something about my experiences in those discussions.

Once I asked about the Association Theory of Dr. Snouck Hurgronje. Magda Peters asked for comments from the other students. No one knew anything about it. She then looked politely at the teachers but none showed signs of wanting to respond. Then she herself spoke.

"I am not sure what it means, either. Perhaps it is something that has arisen in colonial political life. Do you know what colonial politics are?" No one answered. "It is a system or power structure to consolidate hegemony over occupied countries and peoples. Someone who agrees with such a system is a colonialist, who not only agrees with it, but also legitimizes it, carries it out and defends it. The basic issue in all this is the one of earning a living. None of this need yet attract your attention, students. You're all still too young. If such matters were to become the subject of a literary work, it would be much more interesting, as in the case of Multatuli's works, which have been discussed with you in class several times. Try, Minke, to explain Dr. Snouck Hurgronje's Association Theory."

I explained what I'd heard from Miriam de la Croix and my own views on it.

"Stop!" said Magda Peters. "Such subjects may not yet be discussed at H.B.S. school. It's up to you if you want to discuss their outside school. Such matters are the affair of the Queen, the Netherlands government, the governor-general and the Netherlands Indies government. If you have a desire to find out more, it's best you do so outside school. Because none of you have a topic for today's discussion, I will choose one myself.

"Just recently I came across an article about life in the Indies. Too few people write about this. Precisely because of that, it attracted my attention. Maybe the writer is Indo-European."

Maybe, I say. Perhaps some of you may already have read it? It's called: "Uit het Schoone Leven van een Mooie Boerin—The Beautiful Life of a Beautiful Peasant Girl." The writer's name is Max Tollenaar.

Several hands shot up. I kept a straight face. Max Tollenaar was my pen name. The original title had been changed and the editor had made some alterations to the text, not all of which I agreed with.

Miss Magda Peters began to read it out, placing stresses and pauses in such a way that her voice sang and the essay sounded more beautiful than I had originally intended. Yes, you could say it sounded like a long poem, dense with emotion. Virtually no one even blinked while listening. And after the reading was over and people were freed from its hold over them, at last they were able to let go of their breath.

"It's a pity that this story was published in the Indies, about the Indies, about the people and society of the Indies. As a result no one has discussed it in class. All right, one of you come forward and give us your reactions and comments on this story, perhaps even a critique."

Robert Suurhof immediately came forward. He stood there, legs apart, feet nailed to the floor, as if he were scared the wind would blow him over. All eyes were directed at him. Only I hesitated.

He looked around at his friends first. Perhaps he was looking for moral support.

"I've read four pieces by Max Tollenaar over recent weeks. They have all been about the same thing and have been colored by the same emotions. The writer is in the power of some force outside himself. Yes, yes, the writer is suffering some drastic fever. The writings are the long deliriums of someone who has lost all control over himself, who has lost all touch with reality. I don't know who Max Tollenaar is. But I can make a good guess, because I am the only witness to the events that he writes about.

"Miss Magda Peters, I don't think we should be talking about such writings in a school discussion," he continued. "It only makes us all dirty, miss. If I'm not mistaken—and I'm certain I'm not—the writer of this doesn't even have a family name."

He was quiet for a moment, glancing around at all the students in whom he was building up such tension. He raised his chin. His eyes shone victoriously. He was going to let go one more shot.

Miss Magda Peters looked taken aback. Her eyes were blinking rapidly. I I alone knew what Robert Suurhof was up to: to revenge himself upon me. So I began to understand better: It was he who wanted Annelies. There could be no reason other than jealousy for his hatred and his public insults to me. Yes, it was Robert who desired to possess Annelies. He took me with him that day to make himself look good, and so I could be a witness. Why me? Because I was a Native. Upper-class European ladies used to take a monkey with them everywhere so they would appear more beautiful in comparison. He took me. It was Suurhof's monkey that won Annelies's heart.

"The person in question, miss," Suurhof resumed, "is not even an Indo. He is lower than an Indo, than someone whose father refused to acknowledge him. He is an Inlander, a Native who has smuggled himself in through the cracks of European civilization."

He bowed to pay respect to Magda Peters and then to the other teachers present, and then sat down anxiously on the floor.

"Students, Robert Suurhof has just given us his opinion on the author of this story; an author whose identity he alone knows. What I had hoped for was an opinion about the story itself. Very well. Who do you reckon is the author?"

All the students looked around at each other. Then all looks were directed towards their friends who were neither Pure nor those who looked Mixed-Blood, but towards those who looked Native, as if underlining Suurhofs words. They all bowed down their heads.

I knew Suurhofs face was pointed towards me. The others followed his example. No, said my heart, no, don't be afraid. To the devil with all this; if need be, I can leave this school. If necessary, right now.

Suurhof stood up again. He said briefly:

"The author is among us now."

It seemed his whisperings had spread throughout the school. Now every face was directed towards me. I looked straight at Suurhof. Victory shone from his eyes.

"Who is it, Suurhof?" asked Miss Magda Peters. A With Caesar's forefinger, he pointed at me.

"Minke!"

Magda Peters took a handkerchief from her bag and wiped her neck, then her two hands. She didn't know what to do. She turned for a moment towards the row of seated teachers, then at me, then at the students seated upon the floor. Then she walked over to the teachers and the director, who also happened to be present. She gave a little nod, returned to the middle of the meeting, and made a path through the students, heading straight towards me.

Now I will be expelled and publicly humiliated.

She stood for a second before me. The freckles on her legs became clearly visible. And I heard her call:

"Minke!"

"Is it true you wrote this" — she held up the S.N. v/d D — "using the pen name of Max Tollenaar?"

"Have I done something wrong, miss?"

"Max Tollenaar!" she whispered and held out her hand. "Come," and she pulled me up and took me to the director.

All eyes were directed my way. Standing there before all the teachers and the director, I nodded respectfully. They hardly responded. Then I was taken across to stand before all the students.

Silence.

The woman teacher rested her hand on my shoulder. I was like someone at confession who didn't really know what to confess.

"Students, teachers, Director, today I introduce to you all, especially to you students, an H.B.S. pupil by the name of Minke, whom no doubt you all know. But I'm not introducing the Minke whom everybody knows, but rather a Minke of a different quality, a Minke whose use of Dutch to state his feelings and thoughts is brilliant, a Minke who has written a literary work. He has proven that he is capable of writing perfectly in a language that is not his mother tongue. His has brought to life a snippet of reality, which other people, even though they too have experienced that reality, could never explain. I'm proud to have a pupil like him."

She shook hands with me. I still wasn't told to go. Her words of praise raised me up to the highest of heights. Now I waited for the final chop to fall.

"Minke! Is it true you do not have a family name?"

"Students, havitig a family name is just a custom. Before Napoleon Bonaparte appeared on the stage of European history, not even our ancestors—not one of them—used family iApies." She began to tell how Napoleon's decision on this was made law in all the territories that he controlled. Those who could not find an appropriate name were given one at the whim of the local officials, and Jews were given the names of animals, "Even so, the use of family names is not unique to Europe or to Napoleon, who got the idea from other peoples. Long before Europe was civilized, the Jews and Chinese were using clan names. It was through contact with other peoples that Europeans learned the importance of family names." She stopped.

I was still standing there for everybody to look at.

"Is it true you're not an Indo, Minke?"—a formal question that I had to answer in the affirmative.

"Inlander, miss — Native."

"Yes," she said loudly. "Europeans who feel themselves to be a hundred percent pure do not really know how much Asian blood flows in their veins. From your study of history, you will all know that hundreds of years ago, many different Asian armies attacked Europe, and left descendants — Arabs, Turkish, Mongol—and this was after Rome had become Christian! And don't any of you forget that under the Roman empire, the Asian blood, and perhaps even African, of those citizens of Rome from various Asian nations — Arabs, Jews, Syrians, Egyptians — now mingles with the blood of Europeans."

Silence continued to reign supreme.

My heart was empty. My body seemed unsteady. My only desire was to sit down again.

"Much of Europe's science comes from Asia. Yes, even the numerals you use each day are Arab numerals, including zero. Imagine, what would it be like to count and add up without Arab numerals and without zero? And zero in its turn was derived from Indian philosophy. Do you know what the meaning of philosophy is? Yes, another time we'll talk about this. Zero, a condition of emptiness. From emptiness comes the beginning, from the beginning there is a development until the climax, number nine, and then there is emptiness and we begin again with* a higher value, tens, and so on, hundreds, thousands . . . there is no limit. With- out zero the decimal system would vanish, and all of you would have to count using roman numerals. Most of your names are Asian, because Christianity was born in Asia."

The students began to show their restlessness.

"If Natives do not have a family name, that is because they don't, or don't yet, need one; and there is no humiliation in that."

If the Netherlands doesn't have a Prambanan or a Borobudur temple, it means in that era Java was more advanced than the Netherlands. If the Netherlands still does not possess such things, yes, it is because they have never been needed ..."

"Miss Magda Peters," the director intervened, "it's best that this discussion be closed."

The discussion closed; everybody dispersed. Except for Magda Peters everyone seemed to avoid me. No one called out as usual. No one laughed. No one raced ahead of each other as they usually did. They all walked off quietly, full of thought.

Jan Dapperste, a student whose appearance was more Native than European, stood at the fence following after me with his eyes. He always introduced himself as Indo. But to me alone he had admitted to being Native. Trusting in me as a friend, he had explained that he was the adopted child of a preacher named Dapperste. An adopted child! He himself was pure Native. He felt close to me. After I obtained the buggy, it was usual for him to ask to ride along with me. Now he too seemed to be keeping his distance.

This time it was Magda Peters who asked for a ride. She didn't say a word the whole way. Indeed, what's the use of speaking when your heart and mind are full of troubles? The traffic was invisible to me. I could see only one thing: the students' and the teachers' anger towards Magda Peters. Their Europeanness had been wounded.

Once or twice Magda Peters looked at me from beside me where she was sitting.

"What a pity," she sighed into the wind.

I pretended not to hear.

The buggy stopped in front of her house. She said thank you. Then suddenly:

"Come in, Minke," and that was the first time she invited me into her home.

I walked with her inside. So we sat facing each other on the settee in the main room.

"You're extraordinary. Minke. So you really wrote that."

"It's so, miss."

"You are certainly my most successful student. I've taught Dutch language and literature for five years now. Almost four years in the Netherlands. None of my students could write as well as that—and to be published as well. You must be fond of me — are you?"

"There is no teacher of whom I'm more fond."

"Is that true, Minke?"

"With all my heart, miss."

"I guessed so. You must have been following all my lessons very carefully, with all your mind and heart. Otherwise there is no way you could write as well as that. You're not angry with Suurhof, are you?"

"No, miss."

"Good. You're worth much more than he. You've proven what you can do."

The flattery was so embarrassing. She told me to stand up.

"At the very least, Minke, my efforts, my strivings these five years have now achieved some results." She pulled me near her.

Totally surprised, I found myself in her embrace, and she kissed me until I was out of breath! Until out of breath!

Every day I had to visit Jean's house, even if only for one or two minutes, to drop off or pick up May or to hand in some new order. I also had to drop in at my boardinghouse.

Having my own buggy made everything easier: chasing after orders, writing advertising texts, writing other things as well. My time somehow seemed to last longer.

When I arrived home, I was usually exhausted and needed to sleep for a while. Usually Annelies woke me up, bringing a fresh towel, and ordering me to bathe. Afterwards we sat and talked, or read Indies newspapers, or Dutch magazines.

At night, I worked, studied, or wrote while waiting upon Annelies in her room. Her health was improving with every day. But she hadn't yet resumed working.

Mama was very busy in the office and out in back; she had no time for the two of us during the day.

That night, like the nights before, I sat at the table in Anne-lies's room. She was reading Defoe's Robinson Crusoe in a Dut ^{h} translation, each page of which was divided into two columns. I'd prepared a list of books she had to read, all books for young people, such as Stevenson and Dumas. She had to finish them in one month. And beside her lay the old dictionary that Mama used every day—an old dictionary that, over the last ten years, had become incapable of meeting the demands of new developments.

I sat across from Annelies reading letters from Miriam and Sarah before I started writing a story to be titled "A Father's Son." I meant no other than Robert Mellema.

This time Miriam's letter was even more splendid.

Do you remember at all that "other one"? I've received a letter from the Netherlands. From a friend, a close friend, who knows what happened to him in South Africa, in the Transvaal. The writer of the letter returned home to the Netherlands after being wounded in a brief battle. He himself was once in the same unit as the "other one." The brigade was under the command of one Mellema, a young engineer who was hard, courageous, ambitious, he said.

Friend, I was so happy to receive his letter. As happy as I am to receive yours. In it, friend, there was something mentioned that might interest you. The "other one" is a few years older than you, perhaps. Answering the Dutch call to seize back and defend their independence from the British, and without thinking too much about it all, he left for Africa . . . and was greatly disappointed.

Though there are some reports on the war in the Indies press, there is a great deal that is not reported. The Dutch were immigrants there, my friend —I think your favorite teacher, Magda Peters, pays too little attention to wars — and they ruled over the native peoples. In their turn the Dutch immigrants were conquered by British power, also an immigrant power from Europe. So power was structured in layers, with the natives at the bottom.

Just think, isn't it the same in the Indies? Just as Papa explained? There are some small differences, but they don't alter the basic reality. Aren't the Natives here ruled by their own rulers? Kings, sultans, and bupatis? In their turn this brown government is controlled by a white government. The kings, sultans, and bupatis, with all the facilities they have here, are the same as the immigrant Dutch power in South Africa.

My friend, that "other one" was so disappointed when he realized what the war between the British and the Boers — the Dutch immigrants — was really about: who would control the land, gold, and natives. The young Dutchmen who were called to go there from all over the world came only to be wounded or to die for interests alien to Holland. That "other one," according to his letter, saw how the natives of South Africa were much worse off than the natives of the Indies, far worse off than the natives of Aceh. If he was honest to himself, he said, he felt no different from an Indies Army soldier in Aceh.

But he realized this all too late. And he only came to that realization as a result of an unexpected meeting with a nonwhite inhabitant, though not a black, named Mard Wongs. This person, my friend, was only one of several wealthy farmers who could speak Javanese. He and all the others, even though they spoke Afrikaans, were Slameiers, of your own people. Mard Wongs was an Afrikaan version of his original name. I think it must have been: Mardi Wongso. And the Slameiers are none other than the descendants of Javanese and Buginese-Makassarese-Madurese Natives, who had been exiled to South Africa by the Company.

Interesting, yes?

Now Mellema's platoon, so writes my friend from the Netherlands, entered Mard Wong's house to shelter there for the night. The old man, who was white with age, refused them and angrily threw them out of his house. Mellema lost his temper and threatened the old man that he would be shot.

Mard Wongs became more enraged: What else do you Dutch want? In Java you robbed us of all that we rightfully owned, you robbed us of our freedom, and now here you beg for shelter under my roof.' Have you never been taught the meaning of robbery and begging?

Shoot me then! Here is the breast of Mard Wongs. I would not give you the shade from a single piece of roof nor shelter behind one board of my house. Go!

And do you know, my friend, that in this contest of wills, Mellema gave in. He and his platoon were forced to sleep out under the open sky.

It was that incident that made the "other one" realize how Indies Natives hated the Dutch. He realized then that he and his platoon were not the upholders of noble ideals, but merely and no more than the tools of colonial power. He was ashamed. He was confused. He had dreamed of becoming a hero, of making some contribution to humanity. Now he was in the middle of tyranny's arena.

Pity the "other one."

The next morning his platoon attacked a position held by the British South African Light Horse Brigade. Earlier, a Boer regiment had attacked in large numbers from another direction but was confronted, pushed back, and almost totally surrounded and annihilated.

In the midst of all this, Mellema's company attacked the enemy. The British were surprised, fell into disarray, and dispersed under alternative attacks from two directions. The position fell to the Boers.

But, my friend, "the other one," was shot and captured. He has written that perhaps he will be taken as a prisoner of war to England. During those last days he never tired of regretting his earlier stupidity.

The reason why I'm telling you all this, my friend, is simply to add another perspective about something that is not generally publicized in the Indies. Isn't it true you only read about the brutality of the British and the victories of the Dutch in the papers? On the other hand, says Papa, the British press reports are about the savagery and viciousness of the Dutch towards the natives. But there is no paper in England, the Netherlands, or the Indies that talks about the South African natives themselves, let alone about the Slameiers people. Isn't the world strange?

I think the Javanese Natives are better off. There

220

have been a few people who have spoken up on their behalf. Yes, even though their voices have been drowned in the sheer din of the bureaucracy.

This is something we haven't talked about and analyzed yet. Let's try to discuss it another time. You agree, I hope?

Now Minke, my friend, don't let me wait so long for your next letter.

Miriam de la Croix.

Sarah's letter was different again. She wrote:

I can understand it if Miss Magda Peters didn't know anything about the Association Theory. We didn't know anything more than we told you that day. No more than that.

I told Papa that you didn't know anything about it. He only laughed boisterously, and said: You also do not know any more than the little you told him.

After your letter arrived I told Papa that Magda Peters didn't seem to know anything about it. Your other teachers couldn't offer an explanation either. Perhaps they were unwilling, deliberately stopping themselves from answering, or perhaps, indeed, they didn't know anything. So what did Papa say? Not everyone has an interest in colonial policy, just as not everyone is interested in the art of cooking. And don't forget too, that in this age in which we live all the Indies believes in the greatness, authority, wisdom, justice, and compassion of the government. There are no beggars dying of hunger in the streets. Neither are there sick people dying in the streets. They too are protected by the government's laws. No foreigner is beaten to death, just because he is a foreigner; foreigners too are protected by the government's laws.

There is something I feel you should know. Papa has been talking about you: A youth like that should continue his studies at a university in the Netherlands. Perhaps he should study law, Papa said of you. Even if he failed, he would still have learned what the law means to Europeans.

What do you think? Is it possible that a Native could become a graduate in a European science? To be honest, Papa doubts it. Papa says — don't be angry like you were before—the Native psychology hasn't yet developed as far as that of the European: His wiser considerations are still too easily pushed aside by lustful passions. I don't know if this is true or not. It seems that it is true though, especially if you look at the upper echelons of your people. You too should think about this. What do you think?

There is another thing I should pass on to you: One of the youths being tried out by Dr. Snouck Hurgronje is called Achmad, from Banten. I tell you this in case some day you meet, become acquainted, and correspond.

"Why are you sighing?" Annelies suddenly asked.

"On fire."

"What's on fire?"

"My head. My own head. All sorts of things keep coming up. There is already so much work and I'm still not allowed to go undisturbed for a single moment. Read!" and I pushed the letters over to her.

"They're not for me, Mas."

"It's best you know too."

Annelies read them slowly and carefully.

"It seems many people are fond of you. It's a pity I don't understand much of this."

"There's no reason to say it's a pity, Ann. They all seem to want to be my teacher."

"Isn't it good to have teachers?"

"You too, Ann! Of course, it's good to find a teacher. No knowledge is useless. It's only that they all seem to have a passion to see me become an important person as a result of their own efforts. Aren't they capable of doing it themselves anyway? Boring teachers are a terrible torment, Ann," I said.

"Then you don't need to answer."

"That's not right either, Ann. I've read their letters. They wrote to get an answer."

And Sarah had gone a bit too far. Unashamedly mentioning things like lust. Asking for a reply too. Does she want me to strip myself naked? Even in Europe this is not yet a matter for public discussion. It is a private, tightly closed matter. These de la Croix girls go too far!

Annelies resumed reading. I think it unsettled her that the letters came from two girls, sisters. She put the letters down on the table, folded them properly, and put them back into their envelopes. She didn't say anything else.

Neither of us spoke for some time.

"Ann," I began, "you seem to be getting better."

"Thank you for your treatment, Mas Doctor."

"From tomorrow you no longer need a friend to stay in your room with you."

She looked at me suspiciously.

"You're not going back to Kranggan?"

"If you still want me to stay, then, of course, I won't go back."

She frowned. For a moment, she glanced at the letters from Sarah and Miriam.

"Don't you want to stay with me anymore?" she asked in a voice that sounded as if she was about to cry. A "Of course, Ann, while you're ill." 1 "Must I become ill again?"

"Ann, what are you saying?" and at that moment I remembered Dr. Martinet's warning. And I was sure I hadn't spoken roughly to her. I quickly added: "You must recover fully, Mama needs you greatly!"

"Why don't you want to stay here with me just because I'm not sick anymore?" she asked nervously.

"What will people say?"

"What will they say, Mas?"

"Look, Ann, let me explain it to you: You're better now. If you don't want me to go back to Kranggan, then I won't. Believe me. I'll stay here at Wonokromo as long as you want. But not, of course, in your room. So beginning tomorrow, Ann, I want to stay and work in my own room, near the garden. If you feel lonely, you can come and visit me. It's just the same, isn't it?"

"If it's just the same, let's just keep on like this forever. You stay here in my room."

"But upstairs is out of bounds for everyone except Mama and you. We must respect the rules, mustn't we?" and there were still another twenty sentences that I uttered.

She didn't interrupt any more. But her stare reached farther and farther out into the distance. Annelies was jealous.

The next day I visited Jean Marais. Before I left home, I prepared a question about South Africa. He listened silently.

"You know, Minke, as a European I'm already very ashamed that I have become involved in colonial affairs. Probably I'm very similar to the person you've just described, someone whom neither of us has met. I fought in Aceh only because I assumed Natives would not be able to fight back, and so wouldn't fight back. But they fought back all right, really fought, with all their might, ignoring all obstacles. And they were courageous and daring too. Just as in many of the great wars of Europe. It was something to be very ashamed of, Minke: Europe's latest weapons were pitted against the flesh of the Acehnese. Because you've asked me my opinion I'll answer, but never ask me about these things again—it tortures my conscience."

Without us realizing, Mr. Telinga had begun to listen in from a distance; then he came closer, sat upon the table. It looked as if he was eager to join in the discussion.

"All the colonial wars for the last twenty-five years have been fought in the interests of capital; fought to ensure markets that would guarantee more profits for European capital. Capital has become very powerful, all-powerful. Capital decides the fate of humanity."

"War has always been the clash of force and of strategies so as to emerge victor," Telinga intervened.

"No, Mr. Telinga," Marais protested, "there has never been a war conducted for its own sake. There are many peoples who go to war who have no desire to be victor. They go to war and die in thousands, like the Acehnese now .. because there is something they want to defend, something more important than death, life, or defeat and victory."

"It's all the same in the end, Jean. A contest between force and strategies to emerge victor."

"That's only how it ends up, Mr. Telinga. But if that's your opinion, very good. Now if, for example, Aceh wins and Holland is defeated, will the Netherlands become an Acehnese possession?"

"There is no way Aceh can win."

"Yes, that's precisely the point. The Acehnese themselves know they can't win, while the Dutch know too that victory will surely be theirs. Yet, Telinga, the Acehnese still descend to the battlefield. They don't fight to win. They're different from the Dutch. If the Dutch thought that Aceh was strong enough to defend itself, they would never dare attack, let alone start a war. The whole thing is a matter of calculating the profit and loss of capital. If the whole issue is just a matter of winning, why doesn't Holland attack Luxembourg or Belgium, since they're both closer and richer?"

"You're a Frenchman, Jean. You don't have any stake in the Indies."

"Perhaps. At the very least I regret ever having taken part in the war here."

"But you, like me, still accept the army pension!"

"Yes, just like you. But that pension is my right; due to me from those who sent me to war. Just like you. I lost my leg, you lost your health. That has been the only consequence of the war for both of us. We don't want to have an argument, do we, Telinga?"

"You never used to talk like that when you were in the platoon!" accused Telinga.

"Then I was your subordinate, now I'm not."

"What's the point of this argument?" I intervened. "I only asked about South Africa. Good-bye."

Then I went away and visited Magda Peters. She shook her head: "About South Africa? Do you want to become a politician?" she asked me in return.

"What is a politician really, miss?"

Once again she shook her head and looked at me as if I were someone suffering some grief. All we could do was sit there in silence.

"Later, when you have graduated. Then we can talk about this calmly. There is no need to talk about it now. You must make sure you graduate. Your marks are, indeed, not bad. With better ones you're sure to pass. Don't think about other things. Minke, are the stories true — I don't know where they come from—that you're living with some nyai or whatever?"

"I know, miss."

"Why are you doing it then?"

"Because it is not important where you reside. Especially when someone we call a nyai on the outside, miss, is actually no less than an educated person; indeed she is my teacher."

"Teacher? What does she teach you?"

"How someone can, starting from nothing, become an outstanding, self-educated person."

"Self-educated in what?"

"First of all in developing herself, then in developing a big business."

"Don't defend yourself with lies."

"I think I've never lied to you, miss."

"No, except this once." She looked at me, her eyes blinking rapidly, a sign (according to my guess) that she was thinking hard. "Don't disappoint me, Minke. You're educated. It's not fitting that you should act as if you'd never been to school."

"What I said just now was my answer, as an educated person."

The worry in her eyes began to go away. She blinked rapidly again, only it didn't seem funny anymore.

"Explain to me how a nyai can become a self-educated person. Educated in a European way is what you mean, isn't it?"

"At least as I understand it, miss. Perhaps I'm wrong; but try to visit us when you're not busy—in the evening, for example. Miss will be escorted home. They don't usually receive guests, but miss will be my guest."

And I knew for certain that she would come.

"Would you like to visit now?"

"Very well. You should know, Minke, that I need to know what's really going on—to pass on to the Teachers' Council. Something could happen to you one day, Minke."

So we departed. We arrived at five o'clock in the afternoon.

I took her into the front parlor and asked her to sit down. I studied the look on her face.

"It's nothing like I expected," she whispered. "In the Netherlands and Europe, a house like this ... so this is where you W il. 1- live?" I nodded. "It's not easy to own a house like this. Or to live in one. Oh, Minke, like the German houses of Central Europe. " Her attention was caught by something. I followed her gaze.

Annelies, in her black velvet gown, had entered the front room.

"Ann, this is my teacher, Miss Magda Peters."

Annelies approached, bowed, smiled, and held out her hand. And my teacher seemed bewitched. Her eyes had no chance to blink. She stood and shook hands, her mouth wide open.

"Annelies Mellema, miss. Just recovering from an illness. Ann, would you like to call Mama?"

Annelies nodded as she took leave, and left without saying a word.

"Like a queen, Minke, Her face is so delicate. Like an Italian prima donna. Is she the nyai's daughter?" I nodded. "She seems well educated, polite, and grand. Is it because of her you're staying here, Minke?" I didn't answer. She had to understand my silence. "It looks as if she might be your character in "Uit het Schoone Leven van een Mooie Boerin."

"It's indeed her, miss."

"Prima donnas from Italy and Spain, ballerinas from Russia and France, none are as beautiful as she," she said as if she were lamenting her own fate. Then, as if addressing herself, "Yes, I can see why so many people talk so much about Creole beauty. It's a pity, though—the gown should be worn in the evening."

Mama arrived on the scene in her usual clothes: a white embroidered Javanese blouse worn with a brown, red and green kain. She held out her hand to the guest.

"This is Mama, miss, and this is my teacher, Mama. Miss Magda Peters, my Dutch language and literature teacher. Mama is not used to receiving guests, miss," I said, excusing myself to both parties, and because I had brought my teacher here without Nyai's consent.

It appeared that Mama was not upset by my audacity; rather, she began:

"Are Minke's studies going well, miss?"

"He could do better if he wanted to," she replied politely.

"We are not used to receiving guests, miss," said Mama in flawless Dutch. "We're very happy that you have taken the trouble to visit."

"Ma'am, my visit is actually related to school affairs. We want to find out for certain whether Minke can study properly here."

"He leaves in the morning and returns in the afternoon. In the evening he reads, studies, or writes. I'm sorry, miss, I'm not used to being called ma'am and indeed I'm not a Mrs. It's not an appropriate way to refer to me, not my right. Call me Nyai as other people do, because that's what I am, miss."

Magda Peters blinked rapidly. I could sense she had been shaken by this request from the woman standing before her.

"There's no harm in being called ma'am. There's no insult involved, is there?"

"There's no harm. And there's no insult. It's only that it contradicts reality somewhat; it's also not in accord with the law. I've never had a husband."

There has only ever been a master who owns me, my person." In her voice I could hear the bitterness of her life: sharp, a protest directed at humanity.

"Owns?"

"That's what has happened, miss. As a European woman you would no doubt shudder to hear about it."

I began to feel uncomfortable listening to this conversation. Mama was seeking compensation for her past wounds. An unhappy conversation, for the person listening and the person speaking.

"But slavery was abolished in the Indies almost thirty-five years ago, Nyai," Magda Peters responded.

"Yes, miss, as long as there are no reports about slavery. I have read somewhere that there is still slavery in many parts of the Indies."

"From the missionaries?"

"My situation is about the same."

Magda Peters was silent for quite a while. She blinked rapidly.

"Ma'am is not a slave, and is not like a slave either."

"Nyai, miss," Mama corrected her. "A slave can live in an emperor's palace, but still remain a slave."

"Why does Nyai feel herself to be a slave?"

This personal problem, which had been buried so long, now, before this European woman, was seeking for a way out into the open, to protest, to complain, to condemn, to seek attention, to accuse, to charge, to judge-all at once. As I listened I became even more anxious. My thoughts were busy trying to find some excuse to slip quickly away. Meanwhile Nyai was opening the door to her past.

"A European, Pure European, bought me from my parents." Her voice was bitter and filled with a desire for revenge which would not be satisfied even with five palaces. "I was bought to become the brood mother of his children."

Magda Peters was silent. I hurriedly excused myself. I found Annelies upstairs by the window, reading a book.

"Why don't you come down, Ann?"

"I'm finishing this book."

"Why are you in such a hurry to finish it?"

"Really, I prefer hearing your own stories, Mas. Mas still hasn't told me very many. You get me to read other people's stories—these books. You do want to tell me a story, don't you?"

"Of course."

She resumed reading. All of a sudden she stopped, turned around towards me.

"Why have you come here? This is an out-of-bounds area, isn't it?"

"To call you down, Ann. Miss wants to talk with you."

She didn't reply and kept on reading. I went up close to her.

I stroked her hair. She didn't react. When I pulled the book away from her, her eyes didn't follow my action. Annelies wasn't reading. She was hiding her face.

"What's the matter with you, Ann? Angry?" There was no answer. "It must be a good story you're reading."

She bent over and I could feel her shoulders shuddering as he held back her sobs. I turned her around to face me. All of a sudden she hugged me and burst out crying.

"What's the matter with you, Ann? I haven't hurt you in any way, have I?"

And I don't know if it was tens or hundreds of sentences I threw about everywhere to humor her. And she still didn't speak. She hugged me tightly as if afraid I would come loose and fly up into the green heavens. Annelies was jealous.

Conversation between two people drifted in through the

door, which wasn't properly shut. It became increasingly clear that it was originating from the upstairs corridor. Mama could be heard calling out. Annelies released me from her embrace. I poked my head out to have a look. Miss Magda Peters and Nyai were waiting for me in front of one of the upstairs rooms.

"Miss wants to see our library, Minke. Come, I'm going to show her." She opened the door to the room, a room I'd never entered.

The room was the library of Mr. Herman Mellema. It was as big as Annelies's room. Three big cabinets full of heavily bound books stood side by side. There was also a glass cabinet which held Herman Mellema's bamboo pipe collection. The furniture was all spotlessly clean. There was no carpet on the floor, exposing ordinary planks, neither parquetry nor polished wood. There was only one table with a straight-backed chair and an armchair. On the table there stood a white metal stand with fourteen candles. A book, which turned out to be a volume of magazines, lay open on the table, "A very nice room, clean and quiet." Magda Peters allowed her gaze to wander around the room until it fell upon the glass windows that exposed views of the country outside. "So beautiful!" Then she went straight to the table and took up the volume of magazines. She asked, without looking at any particular one, "Who is reading the Indische GidsT "Bedside reading, miss."

"The doctor advises that I read myself asleep."

"Nyai doesn't sleep well?"

"True."

"Nyai has had so many troubles for such a long time?"

"Five years now, miss."

"And Nyai hasn't fallen ill?"

Mama shook her head, smiling broadly.

"So what is Nyai looking for in these magazines?"

"Just something to make me sleep."

"What is Nyai's other bedtime reading?" she asked like a prosecutor.

"Whatever I grab hold of, miss. I don't really choose."

Magda Peters blinked rapidly again.

"And what does Nyai prefer most?"

"What I can understand, miss."

"Does Nyai know anything about Snouck Hurgronje's Association Theory?"

"Excuse me." Nyai took the magazine from my teacher's hands, looked for a specific place, then showed it to Magda Peters.

My teacher glanced over the page quickly, nodded, then looked at me.

"Why did you bring up the Association Theory at school? You should have just asked Nyai."

"I only wanted to find out more about it," I said, even though I never knew that this library existed or that there existed a magazine which published articles about such things.

Magda Peters then inspected the books in the Cabinets. Most were beautifully bound volumes of magazines. It was as if she wanted to inspect the contents of Nyai's head. She didn't seem to find the collection very interesting: They were mostly about livestock, agriculture, commerce, forestry, and timber. But there were also volumes of general and women's magazines from the Indies, Netherlands, and Germany. Magda Peters's gaze swept quickly over most of the library. Then she returned again to the row of colonial magazine volumes and stopped for quite a while in front of a row of books of world literature, all in Dutch translation.

"There is no Dutch literature here, Nyai."

"My master wasn't very interested in Dutch literature, except for Flemish writings."

"Then Nyai must have read some Flemish books also?"

"Yes, there are some."

"May I ask why Mr. Mellema did not like Dutch literature?"

"I don't really know, miss. But he used to say that it was dominated by triviality, had no spirit, no fire."

Magda Peters swallowed. She didn't try to question Mama further. Then she shifted her attention again to the whole library, as if trying to give the impression that she had obtained a picture of the cultural level of Mama's family, a family much slandered at my school lately.

"May I speak with Annelies Mellema?"

"Ann, Annelies!" called out Mama.

I went to her room. I found her sitting by the window. Her gaze was occupied with the great broad panorama in the distance, the mountain range and forests.

"Don't you want to come, Ann?"

She still frowned. Didn't answer.

"Very well. Stay in your room, Ann." And I went and left her.

"Ann!" called Mama once more, softly.

"She's not feeling well. Forgive her, miss, she's just recovered from an illness."

The two women went downstairs to the garden veranda while busily chatting to each other. I don't know what about. One hour later I escorted my teacher home in the same buggy.

She invited me to come in and sit for a moment. But during the journey she did not speak at all.

"First, Minke, after seeing what that family is like, I feel that I'd very much like to visit there often. Your Mama is indeed extraordinary. Her clothes, her appearance, her attitudes. But there are too many sides of her personality. And, except for her language and the embroidery on her blouse, she is totally Native.

"That complicated personality of hers has come very close to taking on the progressive and bright aspects of Europe. And indeed she knows a great deal, too much for a Native to know, and a female Native at that. She is indeed fit to be your teacher. Only that growl of revenge in her voice and in the implications of her words ... I couldn't bear to hear it. If that vengefulness was missing, she'd be truly, brilliantly outstanding, Minke. This is the first time I've met someone, and a woman too, who didn't want to make peace with her own fate." She let out a great long breath. "And it's amazing, her awareness of the law."

I was silent. There were several things I did not understand at all. I would ask Jean when I got a chance.

"Just like something out of a legend from A Thousand and One Nights. Imagine, she feels it's more proper that she be called Nyai.

I thought it was only a part of her revenge. But, indeed, Nyai is the proper term for the concubine of a non-Native. She doesn't like being treated in any special way. She continues to stand firm on her actual situation—with a grandness rooted in revenge.

I still didn't intervene. Mama was being analyzed as if she were a character in a novel and Magda Peters was elucidating her personality in front of class.

"A person who is used to giving orders, running things, after giving everything proper consideration, Minke. She could run a much bigger business. I've never met a female entrepreneur like her. A degree from a Business Academy would not guarantee ability such as hers. You're right, Minke, she is a successful, selfeducated person. And I've only talked about the business side. God! That's what's called a historical jump, Minke, for a Native. God, God! She should be living in the next century. God!"

I still only listened.

"In literary matters she could still learn from you, but even there she is, all the same, amazing. But you know what I found most amazing about her? She dared state her opinions! Even though there was no guarantee they were correct. She was not afraid of being wrong. Determined, with the courage to study from her own mistakes. God!"

I followed what she was saying without comment.

"I'd like to write about this extraordinary thing. It's a great pity I can't write like you, Minke. It's true what she said: without spirit, without fire. All I have is the desire, only the desire. Nothing more. You should be happy, Minke, being able to write. And that Association Theory, Minke, it lies collapsed and broken just because of that Native woman, your Mama, Minke. If there were just a thousand Natives like that in the Indies, Minke, these Netherlands Indies—Minke, these Netherlands Indies could just shut up shop. Perhaps I'm exaggerating, but it's only a first impression."

Remember, first impressions, no matter how important, are not necessarily always correct."

She was quiet for a while then let out a long breath again. Her eyes no longer blinked nervously.

"She could advance even further. It's a pity that such a person would not be able to live among her own people. She is like a meteor shooting off by itself, traveling through space, knowing no bounds, who knows where eventually to come to ground, on another planet or back on our earth again, or to disappear in the infinity of nature."

"How much you praise her, miss."

"Because she's a Native, and a woman, and is indeed amaz ^{in} g."

"Please come again, miss."

"Pity. It's not possible."

"As my guest."

"It's not possible, Minke."

"Yes, Mama is always busy."

"It's not that. It seems your prima donna doesn't like me, Minke. I'm sorry. Thank you for the invitation. She loves you very much, Minke, that prima donna of yours. You should be happy, Minke. Now I know what all the gossip has been about."

I had come to feel at peace and safe at Wonokromo. Robert was never to be seen. Mama and Annelies never mentioned him. Even so it did not mean I could feel I'd taken his place. I put all my efforts into impressing people outside that I was not a bandit, and had no intention of acting like one. And that I was no more than a guest who could be told to leave at any time.

And one night after finishing some study I decided I would not do any writing. I would have a rest and then continue with some more schoolwork. I don't know why I had become so industrious all of a sudden. I wanted to get ahead at school. One thing was certain: It was not because of pressure from my family or from Annelies.

And I received no particular encouragement from my mother's letters either. They always asked if I was being beset by difficulties. I answered her fourth letter to tell her that I was doing well financially and to suggest that my monthly* allowance be used for my younger brothers and sisters.

Correspondence was the hardest work. And in every letter I still gave Telinga's address. I only used the Wonokromo address when writing to Sarah and Miriam. They had started this. And I never asked them where they obtained the address.

I'd finished three algebra exercises that evening. The clock's pendulum struck nine times. The moment the chime stopped there was a knock on my door. Before I could answer, Annelies had entered.

"According to our rules you should be in bed by nine o'clock!" I rebuked her.

"No!" She frowned sullenly. "I don't want to sleep if Mas won't study in my room like before."

"You're becoming more and more spoiled Ann." Even Dr. Martinet would not have been able to handle a patient as difficult as she. I knew for certain: she really wouldn't go to sleep until her wishes had been one hundred percent fulfilled.

"Come on upstairs. Tell me a story until I fall asleep like you usually do."

"I've run out of stories."

"Don't make it impossible for me to sleep, Mas."

"Mama knows a lot of stories, Ann."

"Your stories are always better," and she closed all my books and pulled me up from my chair.

This doctor, obedient to his patient, gave in to her tugging, left the veranda, went upstairs, past Mama's room and the library, and once again entered Annelies's room. Over the last few days I hadn't been putting her blankets on or pulling down the mosquito net. As soon as she seemed to be getting well, she had to do all that herself.

She climbed straight up into her bed, lay down, and said:

"Pull up my blanket, Mas."

"You're not really going to keep on being as spoiled as this?"

I protested.

"Who else will spoil me if you don't? Now tell me a story. Don't just stand there. Sit here like you usually do."

So I sat on the edge of the mattress, not knowing what I must do near this newly recovered goddess of beauty.

"Come now, begin a beautiful story. One better than Stevenson's Treasure Island or Kidnapped, more beautiful than Dickens's Our Mutual Friend. Those stories don't speak, Mas."

I must always surrender for her health's sake!

"What kind of story, Ann? Javanese or European?"

"Whatever you like. I long for your voice, your words spoken close to my ear, so I can hear the sound of your breathing."

"What language? Javanese or Dutch?"

"Don't be so argumentative, Mas. Start a story now."

So I began to invent a story. I was unprepared. It couldn't just pop out of my head. And then I remembered the story of the love between Queen Susuhunan Amangkurat 4 and Raden Sukra. It was a pity it was so frightening and wouldn't be good for her health. Dr. Martinet had left me orders: You must tell her happy stories that have nothing frightening in them. This child is amazing, he said further, even though her growth and intelligence are normal, her emotions are still those of a ten-year-old child. Be a good doctor, Minke. Only you can cure her. Strive so that she believes totally in you. She dreams of a beauty that does not exist in this world, perhaps because she's been forced to take on too many responsibilities too quickly. Her hopes are for a freedom without responsibility. Minke, such beauty, such incomparable beauty, must not die. Try. If you can become a vessel into which her trust can flow, only then will you be able to build up her self-confidence. Try hard.

So I began to make up a story as I went along. How it would end I didn't know myself. I'll plagiarize the characters at random, I thought. Let them complete their own tales.

"In a country, far, far away," I began,—" you're not being annoyed by mosquitoes, are you?"

"No. Why are there mosquitoes in that faraway country?"

She laughed and her teeth glittered in the candlelight.

"In that far, faraway country there were no mosquitoes as there are here. Neither were there lizards crawling on the walls ready to eat them. Clean. That country was very, very clean."

As usual her gaze rested upon me. Her eyes shone dreamily as they did when she was ill.

"This country was fertile and always green. Everything that was planted thrived. Neither were there any pests. There was no illness, there was no poverty. Everyone lived happily and enjoyed life. Everyone was clever and liked to sing and dance. Everyone had their own horses: white, red, black, brown, yellow, blue, pink, green. Not one was blemished with spots."

"Kik-kik-kik. " Annelies restrained her giggling. "There are blue and black horses!" she said to herself slowly.

"And in this country there lived a princess of incomparable beauty. Her skin was as smooth as ivory-white velvet. Her eyes were as brilliant as morning stars. No one could bear to gaze upon her for too long a time. A pair of eyebrows, just like slopes of mountains, protected that pair of daylight stars. The form of her body was what every man dreamed of. So all the country loved her. Her voice was gentle, overcoming the heart of all who heard her. If she smiled, the resolve of every man was shaken. And when she smiled, her white, shining teeth gave hope to every admirer. And when she was angry, her gaze focused and blood streamed to her face . . . amazing; she became more captivatingly beautiful still.

"One day she was going around the garden, on a white horse—" "What was her name Mas, this princess?"

I hadn't yet found a fitting name, because I didn't yet know whether this story was taking place in Europe, the Indies, China, or Persia. So I continued:

"All the flowers bowed down, bending their stalks, shamed and defeated by her beauty. They paled, losing their splendor and their color. Only after the princess passed by did the flowers stand straight again, look up at the sun and complain, 'Oh, Great Sun God, why have we been shamed so? Did You not plant us on this earth as the most beautiful creatures in all of Your creation? You gave us the task of bringing beauty to humanity's life. Why is there now someone more beautiful than us?'

"The sun, too, was shamed because of these complaints and in his shame he hid behind a great, dense cloud. The wind blew, shaking the sad-hearted flowers. Then rain soon came and withered the leaves of all those multicolored flowers.

"The princess continued her ride, taking no notice of what had occurred behind her. The rain and wind could not find it in their hearts to disturb her. All along the road people stopped to admire .."

I saw that Annelies had closed her eyes. I took the mattress broom and shooed away the mosquitoes, then dropped down the mosquito net.

"Mas," she called, opening her eyes and holding on to my hand, preventing me from carrying out my intention. are ble yes >on of her /ed ard len er. Ito iful ow na, led ind md iun his ou • is nd w, th- lat in to :he ^{n}y

I sat down again. The story had broken off. I groped around trying to start it up again:

"Yes, the princess rode on upon her horse. Everyone who observed her dreamed of how happy they would be if the gods would just turn them into the horse she was riding. But the princess did not know how they felt. She felt no different from anyone else. She never felt herself to be beautiful, let alone beautiful without peer."

"What was the name of the princess?"

"Yes?" ..

"Her name ... her name ..." she pressed. "Wasn't her name Annelies?"

"Yes, yes, Annelies was her name," and the story turned to tell about Annelies. "She had all kinds of clothes. Her favorite was a black velvet evening dress, which she liked to wear at all times of the day."

"Ah!"

"The princess longed for a beautiful love, more beautiful than had ever been glorified as having occurred among the gods and goddesses in the heavens. She longed for the arrival of a prince who was dashing, handsome, courageous, and more grand than the gods themselves.

"And then one day it happened. The prince she longed for arrived. He was indeed handsome. Manly also. But he did not have a horse of his own. Indeed he couldn't even ride a horse."

Annelies giggled again.

"He came in a rented buggy. There was no sword at his waist, because he had never gone to war. All be brought was a pencil, pen, and paper."

Annelies laughed again.

"Why are you laughing, Ann?"

"Was Minke the name of this prince?"

"Yes, his name was Minke."

Annelies closed her eyes. She still held my hand, afraid I would leave her.

"The prince entered the princess's palace as if he had just been victorious in battle. They chatted together. In no time at all the princess fell in love with him. There could have been no other outcome."

"No," protested Annelies, "the prince kissed her first.

"Yes, the prince almost forgot. He kissed the princess, and she went complaining to her mother. Not so her mother would be angry with the prince. But hoping her mother would approve of the prince's action. But her mother paid no attention."

"This time your story is wrong, Mas. Her mother not only paid attention. More than that. She was angry."

"Is it true she was angry? What did she say?"

"She said: Why complain? You yourself hoped for and expected to be kissed."

Now it was I who couldn't stop myself laughing. So as not to offend her, I hurriedly resumed the story again:

"How stupid was the prince. Twice now he has erred in his story. Indeed, the princess was hoping for and expecting his kiss."

"Liar! She neither hoped for nor expected it. She had no idea at all about what was going to happen. The prince came. He couldn't ride a horse, was even afraid of horses. He came, and before she knew what was happening, he kissed her."

"And the princess had no objections. Yes, she even forgot her sandals—" "Liar! Ah, you're lying, Mas," and she pulled my arm hard, protesting against the untrue course of the story.

And so I fell into the softness of her embrace. My heart began to pound like the ocean whipped by the west wind. All my blood rushed to my head, dragging away my awareness and disrupting my work as a doctor. And I returned her embrace. And I heard her shallow breathing. And my own breathing too, or was it all my own, though I didn't realize it. The world, nature, dissolved into nothingness. There was only her and me, raped by a force that turned us both into a pair of prehistoric animals.

And we lay there exhausted, beside each other; we had lost something. All of nature suddenly went silent, without meaning. The pounding of my heart had stopped. Black clots began to arise within my heart. What was all this?

And Annelies held my hand again. Mute. And silently there was enmity between us. Enmity?

"Regrets, Mas?" she asked as I let go of a long breath.

And I did have regrets: an educated person with a mandate as a doctor. The clots of blackness were spreading everywhere. And indeed there were other regrets emerging that were not of my own will.

Annelies demanded an answer. She sat and rocked my body repeating her question. I never guessed she was so strong. My answer was only to let out another long breath, longer still than before. She brought her face up close to mine to convince herself.

I knew she needed an answer.

"Speak, Mas!" she demanded.

Without looking at her, I asked:

"Is it true I'm not the first man, Ann?"

She struggled free of me. Collapsed on the bed. Turned towards the wall with her back to me. She sobbed slowly. And I didn't regret having been so cruel, asking her such a tormenting question;

She was still sobbing and I Still didn't react.

"You regret it, Mas, you regret it." She began to cry.

And I remembered my task.

"I'm sorry, Ann," and I stroked her thick hair in the manner she stroked the mane of her horse. She became quiet.

"I knew," she forced herself, "that one day a man I loved would ask me that." She became calmer and continued. "I have concentrated all my courage to be able to answer that question. To face it, I'm afraid. Afraid you'll leave me. Will you leave me, Mas?" Her back was turned towards me.

"No, Annelies darling," said the doctor.

"Will you marry me, Mas?"

"Yes."

She cried again. So slowly. Her shoulders shook. I waited until it receded. Still with her back to me, she spoke slowly, word by word, almost whispering:

"Poor Mas, not the first man. But it was not my wish, Mas, a disaster I could not avoid."

"Who was the first man?" I asked coldly.

She didn't answer for a long time.

"You'll seek revenge against him, Mas?"

"Who was he?"

"So shameful." Her back was still towards me.

Slowly but surely I realized: I was jealous.

"That animal." She pounded against the wall. "Robert!"

"Robert!" I answered viciously. "Suurhof? It's not possible!"

"Not Suurhof." Once again she pounded'against the wall. "Not him. Mellema." A "Your brother?" I sat up, shocked.

She cried again. I pulled her roughly; she fell down on the bed. She covered her face with her arm. Her face was soaked with tears.

"Liar!" I accused, as if it was now my right to treat her in such a way.

She shook her head. Her face was still covered by her arm. I pulled her arm, and she pulled herself free, resisting me.

"Don't cover your face if you're not lying."

"I'm ashamed, Mas."

"How many times have you done it?"

"Once. Truly. A horrible accident."

"Liar."

"Kill me if I'm lying," she answered firmly. "Then one day you'll find out what happened. What's the use of living if you don't believe me."

"Who else beside Robert Mellema?"

"No one. You."

I let her go. I began to think over her shattering explanation. Was this perhaps the moral level of the nyai families? I almost answered yes. But I heard Jean Marais's voice again: Educated people must be just and fair, starting with how they think. I imagined Marais pointing and accusing: Your morals are no better, Minke. And I became ashamed of myself. She, Annelies, was no worse than Minke.

We remained silent for a long time. Each busy with our own hearts. Then I heard:

"Mas, let me tell you about it." Her voice was calm now. She needed to defend herself. Her sobbing had been replaced by a determined heart. Only she covered her eyes again with her arm.

"I still remember the day, month, and year. You can see it marked in red on the wall calendar. Almost half a year ago. Before I met you. Mama ordered me to find Darsam. People said he had gone down to the villages. I went to find him on my favorite horse. I went into village after village calling out his name. They—the village people—ran about to help me. He couldn't be found anywhere."

"Then someone told me he was inspecting the peanut crop in the fields. I turned and headed for the peanut fields. He wasn't there either. Even though there were no high trees, he was not" visible anywhere. His clothes, always black, made it easy for people to pick him out. And indeed, he wasn't there.

"A child I passed told me that he was on the other side of the swamp. Then I remembered: He was preparing a new field, one that was still dense with reeds. That field was to be planted with alfalfa and Job's tears for the new cattle Mama was importing from Australia. You couldn't see the field because it was surrounded by tall reeds.

"Do you remember that one remaining clump of reeds that I refused to go and look at with you?"

"Yes," and a picture of the bushes emerged; they were tall and bunched up together. She had refused. I could still remember how she had shuddered.

"I turned my horse in that direction while shouting out for 1)arsam from across the swamp. There was no answer. I came across a narrow track, broken here and there by bunches of reeds. And it was Robert I found." '' 'Ann,' Robert greeted me with a funny gaze. He'd thrown down his rifle and the string of birds from his morning's hunting. 'Darsam just passed here,' he said. 'He said he had to see Mama. He forgot he promised to see her at nine o'clock. He was two hours late.'

"I relaxed when I heard the explanation. 'And how many have you caught?' I asked. He fetched his string of birds and showed me. 'This is nothing, Ann,' he said again, 'the usual. I caught a strange animal today, Ann. Come down.'

"He walked a few meters and picked up the corpse of a big black-haired wildcat. I got down from my horse."

"This is not just any cat," he said. "Maybe this is the wildcat they call a blacham."

"I patted the hair of the cat-victim, which had been struck on the head."

"No, I didn't shoot it. It was curled up asleep under a tree when I crept up and struck it dead."

"His dirty hand grabbed my shoulder and I spoke angrily to him. He attacked me like a mad buffalo, Mas. I lost my balance and fell into the reeds. Had there been one sharp reed trunk, I would have been speared and would have died for certain. He fell on top of me. He held me with his left arm,* at the same time covering my mouth. I knew I was going to be killed. And I struggled to be free, scratching his face. I couldn't fight those mighty muscles of his. I called out for Mama and Darsam. My calls died under the palm of his hand. Then I remembered Mama's warning: 'Don't go near your brother.' Now I understood, but it was too late. For a long time Mama had been alluding to his greed for Papa's estate.

"Then I realized he was going to rape me before killing me.

He tore open my clothes. He kept my mouth covered. And my horse neighed loudly. How I begged that she would help me now.

I closed my legs together like a vise but he prized them open with his powerful knees. I could not avoid the disaster.

"An unavoidable disaster, Mas," and she was silent for a long time again. I didn't say anything, but transmitted her story into images.

"My horse weighed again, came forward, and bit Robert on his bottom. My brother yelled out in pain, jumped up. The horse chased him for a moment. He ran out of the reed bush. I grabbed his rifle and ran out too. I shot at him. I don't know whether he was hit or not. In the distance I could see blood all over his pants, running down onto his trouser legs—the wound from the horse bite.

"I threw down the rifle. My body hurt all over. I tasted the salty taste of blood in my mouth. I couldn't climb up upon my horse, but when I neared the villagers I forced myself up on her so my disheveled clothes were hidden—" "Annelies!" I exclaimed and I embraced her. "I believe you, Ann. I believe you."

"Your trust is my life, Mas. I've known that from the begin ^{nin} g."

Once again neither of us spoke for a while. It was then I had my doubts about the doctor's advice. She was adult enough. She knew how to defend herself, even if she hadn't been successful. She knew the meaning of death and trust.

"Didn't you say anything to Mama?"

"What good would that do? The situation would have got worse. If Mama found out, Robert would have been eliminated by Darsam, and then everyone would have been destroyed. Mama. Me. No one would come to our business anymore. Our house would have become a house of the Devil."

She spoke these last words strongly. But suddenly her strength disappeared: She hugged me again and cried again ... and cried again.

"Have I done wrong or not, Mas?"

I hugged her in return. And suddenly my heart pounded, whipped up by the east wind. And once again it happened; we formed a pair of prehistoric animals, until finally we rolled over on the bed again. This time there was no clot of blackness in my heart. And we lay in each other's embrace, like wooden dolls.

Annelies fell asleep.

Indistinctly, half-consciously, I thought I heard Mama come in, stop for a second in front of the bed, chase away the mosquitoes, and mumble:

"Hugging each other, like two crabs."

Half-awake, half-dreaming, I felt that woman pull up our blankets, pull down the mosquito net, blow out the candles, and then leave, closing the door.

My school friends still kept away from me. The only one who began to befriend me again was Jan Dapperste. All this time he was my admirer and looked upon me as a {Mei-kind} , a "child of May," a child of good fortune, a child who would never suffer failure.

He studied industriously, yet his marks were always below mine. His pocket money also came from me. Perhaps because of that pocket money he looked upon me as his elder brother. We were in the same class.

Jan Dapperste always told me of any rumor about me. So I knew all the ill-intentioned things Robert Suurhof planned against me. From Jan I also found out that Suurhof had reported me to the school director. Who cares, I thought. If they want to expel me, let them. I can't do anything in this school anyway. Elsewhere? Free and able.

Once the school director did call me in and ask why I had become such a loner and didn't seem to be liked by the other students. I answered that I liked them all, and that there was no way I could make them like me. He then said that there must be some reason they don't like me. Of course, Director. What's the reason? he asked again. I really don't know, I answered, I only know that there have been rumors about me spread by Robert Suurhof.

"Because you're not one of them any longer. Not a part of them, not the same as them."

I quickly understood: This was a sign I was to be expelled. Very well—I'd prepared myself to face such an eventuality. No need to be afraid. I may not continue my studies? No matter. In the final analysis school was no more than just a way to fill in time anyway. If I could advance, good; if not, no matter.

"We hope that you can improve your behavior. You will be important one day, an official. You're receiving a European education. You should be continuing your studies in Europe. Don't you want to become a bupati?"

"No."

"No?" He stared at me more sharply for a moment. "Ah yes, perhaps you want to become a writer. Or a journalist. Even so, proper behavior is still required. Or do I need to write a letter to the Bupati of B------or Assistant Resident Herbert de la Croix?"

"If you feel that to write to them about me would be useful, of course there'd be no harm in doing so."

"So you agree that I should write the letters?"

"It's no concern of mine. That's your affair, Director. It has nothing to do with me."

"Nothing to do with you?" He gazed at me again, still more sharply. Then in amazement he resumed hesitantly. "So who am I talking to now? Minke or Max Tollenaar?"

"They're the same, sir, the one individual with different names."

He told me to go and didn't summon me again.

Miss Magda Peters also seemed to keep her distance, though she still seemed friendly, and I met her only during classes.

The school discussions were still suspended by the director.

And amazingly, I felt that whatever was going to happen, I was dependent on nobody. I felt strong. My writings were being read by more and more people. More and more were being published—even though they hadn't brought in a single cent all this time. If the public knew I was a Native, I thought, maybe their interest would dissolve away; perhaps they would a|A> feel deceived. Only a Native! I was prepared to face this also. Jan Dapperste had already warned me of Suurhof s plan to expose me to the public.

The interview with the school director was not the only thing that occurred during that month, however. Not long after Jan Dapperste's whispered warnings, the paper S.N. vfdD. summoned me to their office. The managing editor of the paper wanted to meet me.

Jan Dapperste did not refuse my invitation to accompany me.

Mr. Maarten Nijman received us both and pushed across to me a reader's letter. Exactly as Jan had said: Max Tollenaar is only a Native. Jan and I recognized the writing. Jan nodded knowingly. “Have you called me to obtain recompense because of this letter?” I asked. “So what it says is true?” “Yes.” “Well, indeed, we must make a claim upon you.” He smiled agreeably. “We've prepared our claim. You no doubt know what we are going to demand?” “No.” “Mr. Tollenaar, we demand that you work part-time for the paper, part-time but on a permanent basis.” He pushed across a receipt and I received an honorarium for my past writings, even though it wasn't all that much. “From now on, as you're now a permanent helper, you'll receive more.”

"How can I help?"

"Write, write whatever you like; and may you have success," sir."

The buggy took us to a restaurant. Jan Dapperste congratulated me and ate with great gusto, as if he had never eaten in all his life.

The third thing that occurred was a meeting with Dr. Martinet. It happened straight after we left the restaurant. Jan Dapperste was still with me. The doctor was waiting for me on his veranda, and said he wanted to see me. “And, Doctor,” he addressed me, “how is your patient?” “Well, Doctor.” “What do you mean?” “She's healthier now, working as before, and reads a lot in her spare time. She rides her horse when visiting the fields or the villages. She adheres strictly to the reading schedule I've prepared. Sometimes the three of us sit together listening to music from the phonograph.” “True. She seems well.”

And Jan Dapperste was left alone on the veranda. “Seems? So she's not as well as you hoped for, Doctor?” “It's like this, Mr. Minke. I've already examined her five or six times over the last few weeks. I didn't notice at first. But after a third examination, I realized that she always shuddered and the hairs on her neck stood up whenever I touched her. Since then I have been suspicious. What is going on inside the body of this beautiful girl? I began to think there might be something amiss in her unconsciousness. I quickly started to study it. At first I thought she was revolted by me. Perhaps in her eyes I looked like an animal. Perhaps I was truly revolting. I examined myself in the mirror. I examined my face in great detail. No. I hadn't changed much over the last ten years except that I now wear a monocle in my right eye. Isn't my face normal and indeed, perhaps, handsome, even if only a little?"

"Not just a little, Doctor." “Ah! A little is enough. You're the one who is really handsome. That's why she's chosen you and not me.” “Doctor!” I exclaimed, protesting. “Yes, Dr. Minke,” he laughed. “Only after I met you did I realize that she didn't shudder because of my appearance. It seems she shuddered because of my skin. White skin.” “Her father was also white-skinned. A Pure-Blood.” “Ts, ts, this is only a guess. Her father was white-skinned. Pure-Blooded. Yes. Listen, I called you to help me solve this problem. Yes, her father was a Pure-Blood European. Precisely. How many children in this world feel revulsion towards their parents? Deeply or not? Permanently or only sometimes? There are indeed no statistics, but there are such children, and not a few. This revulsion can be caused by the parents' own behavior, for example. If her parents had the same color skin as she has, she wouldn't be revolted by skin color.” “Annelies is also white.” “Yes, but with a Native softness. I myself have dreamed of her becoming mine. Funny, isn't it, Dr. Minke? It's a pity she's too young for me. Only a dream! Don't be angry. I'm not serious.

The fact is that she's revolted by me. Yes, she does have white skin. I'll make the following guess: An outside influence, strong and beyond opposition, has given her a false image of herself. She feels herself a Native, a genuine, real Native. She has obtained a picture from her mother that all Europeans are disgusting, loathsome, and act basely. My interviews with Nyai and Annelies encourage me to come to such conclusions. Nyai is indeed extraordinary. I think everybody acknowledges that. I've said before to you that she has unconsciously self-educated herself? And because of that she failed in another field? She doesn't understand how to bring up her children. She has placed them in the middle of her own personal conflicts. It's not just a deficiency—it's a failure, Mr. Minke.

It seemed that the conversation was going to go on for a long time. I excused myself for a moment and ordered the buggy driver take Jan Dapperste home. “That child, who knows nothing, accepts everything that is crammed into her as part of her very self,” he continued. “But Mama doesn't hate Europe. She does a lot of business with Europeans, and with professionals like yourself. She even reads European literature.” “True. As long as it fits in with her interests. Just look at her relationship with Mr. Mellema. She progressed because of her master, but her unconscious always had its reservations and distrusted him. Everyone among elite circles knows the tragic story of Mr. Mellema and his concubine, except, perhaps, Annelies herself. Without being conscious of it, Nyai has molded Annelies into her second personality. That child will never show any initiative if far from her mother. Initiative, in the form of commands that Annelies cannot refuse, will always be something that comes from her mother. Have pity on that beautiful child. Her psyche is in confusion, Mr. Minke. Her mind is inside her mother's head.”

I listened, staring, confused. It was an explanation that was involved, difficult, the first of its type that I'd ever heard, but clear and interesting. It was amazing how someone could peep into somebody's inside like peeping into the inside of a watch. “The mother's personality is overwhelming, she knows so much: more than enough for her life's needs in this jungle of ignorance which is the Indies. People are afraid to face her, afraid that they will be able to move once under her influence. I, too, often find myself at my wits' end to know what to do. If she was only an ordinary nyai, then with that sort of wealth, with that sort of beauty, with an uncertain man, there would have certainly already been many thrushes coming around showing off their beautiful” whistling. But no. None at all. None have come. None are singing—as far as I know, Pure, Indo, let alone any Natives, who most clearly of all would never dare try. They all know they would be facing a tigress. With one growl from her, such a company of crickets would disappear, tumbling head over heels in a daze.” “Is all this true, Doctor?”

"You must help me think it out." “Is it proper for an H.B.S. student to be involved in work like this?” “Ts, ts, ts, you're the one who has something at stake here. And, Dr. Minke, do you think I'm just making up a fairy tale? You're educated: Try to prove me wrong. That's why I needed you here. You are closer to them. It is you who must investigate what is happening; it is you who must understand what's happening. I'm just trying to give you a starting point. You are an adult. Furthermore, only you can be her doctor now. Not Martinet. She, that girl, loves you; and love comes from a source of power that has no equal. It can change people, destroy them or cause them to cease to exist, build them up or smash them down. It's her love for you that I put my hope in; my hope that she will be able to free herself from her mother, so she can develop a personality of her own. From my most recent observations, from her deliriums, from the look in her eyes, it is clear that she has surrendered her fate to you. This is no mere guess, not just some wild supposition.”

His analysis was becoming increasingly interesting—because it did indeed relate to my personal concerns. “Once she begins to say no to her mother, it means that there is some movement towards change occurring inside her. Of course one result will be pain, just as with all births. Nyai herself has unconsciously prepared the way for such a birth within the psyche of her daughter: She hasn't opposed Annelies's relationship with you, and has rather suggested it and made positive proposals, and even enthusiastically encouraged it. But there is still something else that is troubling her.” (There then followed, I think, a number of sentences which I couldn't quite understand because of my own limitations. I haven't noted these down here.) “Annelies, your sweetheart, carries some burden that weighs heavily on that fragile heart of hers. All roads have been opened to you, cleared by her mother. It appears that it is you, Mr. Minke, whom Nyai wishes as her son-in-law. And it looks, as if you approve of Nyai's wish. Even so, whatever it is that is burdening the girl's heart should also be of concern to us. She has been able to capture your heart, if I'm not mistaken. She should have the right to feel happy. But no, Mr. Minke. On the contrary, she is suffering very, very greatly: afraid of losing you, whom she loves with all her heart. This is piling up all sorts of sufferings on her. She could go mad, Mr. Minke, I'm not joking, a person could go insane, become totally unbalanced, lose her mind, go crazy.”

He stopped talking. He took out a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face and neck. “Hot,” he said. Then he stood up and went over to the corner of the room where he wound up the spring of the fan. After it started up and began cooling down the room he came back and sat down. “For me, if treated just as an intellectual problem, this is all very absorbing; on the other hand, to see such youth and beauty dominated by uncertainties and fears is so saddening … do you understand what I mean?” “Not yet, Doctor, these fears …” “We'll come to them in a minute. Perhaps ever since Eve, beauty has excused the deficiencies and imperfections of people. Beauty lifts up a woman over her fellow women, higher, more honored. But beauty, and indeed even life itself, is all in vain if it is dominated by fear. If you still don't understand, I'll tell you what the problem is: She must be liberated from her fears, all her fears.” “Yes, Doctor.” “Don't just give me yes, yes, yes. You are an educated person, not a yes-man. If you're not of the same opinion as me, then speak up. It's by no means certain that what I'm saying is correct. I'm not a psychologist by training. So if you have different opinions then say so frankly so that our work of curing her will be easier.” “I have no opinion at all, Doctor.” “Impossible. Come on, out with it.” I remained silent. “It's not too hot now, is it? Look, Mr. Minke, in science, the word embarrassed has no place. People should not be embarrassed of being in error or doing something incorrectly. Errors and mistakes like these will consolidate the truth and so also assist in our researches.” “It's true, Doctor; I have no opinion on this.” “I know you're trying to hide something. Educated people always have an opinion, even if a mistaken one. Come on, out with it.”

His transparent, marblelike eyes gazed at me. He placed his two hands on my back. “Look into my eyes, speak frankly. Don't make things more difficult for me.”

I gazed at his eyes, and because of their transparency it was as if I could see through into his brain. “With respect, tell me. Please don't make me fail in this work of mine.”

"Doctor," I began, "truly, this is the first time I've ever heard an analysis of this kind. I'm still amazed by it all; how can I come to any conclusions? About Mama and Annelies, yes, I have often felt that there are some problems. Especially about Robert. My feelings about all this, my feeling mind you, not my opinion, or at least not yet my opinion, is that there isn't much wrong in what you've just said. On the contrary, I think it will help me to understand. Am I mistaken?" “Good enough and not mistaken. In science, humility is sometimes needed. But only sometimes. But you don't need to be humble when answering my questions. But, yes, forgive me if it seems I'm acting like a prosecutor. I'm absolutely sure that all this is in your interests too.”

The spring in the fan had almost wound down, so he went over to the corner and wound it up again. “Good,” he said, without sitting down. “Well now, please listen: What I'm about to say may be of some use to you in any deliberations at home. First of all, about her fear of losing you. This whole matter is in your hands. No one else can assist. As soon as she sees signs that you are going to leave her, she'll begin to become anxious. So you must not let her see any such signs, let alone actually leave her. To leave her would mean to break her.”

He took a pencil from his desk. "Like this," and he snapped the pencil in two. "This broken pencil can still be used. But not a broken psyche, Mr. Minke. If such a person continued to live, she would be a burden upon all. If she dies it would be to everyone's regret. Haven't I already said you are her doctor? It could happen that, should you wound her love, you might end up killing her instead. Now I've told you, as clearly as I could. Without embarrassment, without fear, without self-interest. It's up to you now whether you become her doctor or her killer. By telling you this my own responsibility diminishes."

Now he sat down again. He put the broken pencil on the table. Then he gazed at me again, perhaps to convince me he wasn't just joking. “Yes, Doctor.” “On the other hand, Mr. Minke, it is precisely because she has fallen in love with you that she is beginning to be born as a personality in her own right, because she is being confronted with a problem that is totally personal. This time no one else can give any commands. It is her birth as a personality in her own right that has made her fall ill.”

I didn't understand any of this. I gazed into his eyes. I don't know why but all of a sudden I felt a surge of suspicion towards him, as a European. He seemed to know what I was feeling and hurriedly added: “Once again, it is by no means certain that I am. correct in what I'm saying, even half correct, let alone wholly. But while you have no opinion of your own, it would be wise for you to accept what I've said as a guide. So you do not become confused. A temporary guide.”

He didn't resume his lecture for some time. I reckoned he was having doubts. The thought gave me great pleasure. At the very least I could breathe easily again. It was true, of course, that they were only words that he was pouring out at me. But it felt as if I were the anvil upon which he was hammering out some new understanding. “Yes, Doctor.” It was naturally I who began, but only as an indication that I was not an anvil without spirit. “Yes.” He spoke as if it were a complaint. And a heavy exhalation escaped from his chest, which was tight with problems. “Yes, this is all just conjecture at the moment, conjecture based on a number of facts,” he resumed in defense of himself, asking for forgiveness at the same time. “I won't say any more until you have your turn: Now you must talk to me. In what room do you sleep?”

He knew I could not hide my embarrassment. Even at school such a question would be considered insolent; no one would ever question me like that. “In science, embarrassment has no value, not even a tenth of a cent. Mr. Minke, help me. Only the two of us together can rid her of those fears. So, where do you sleep?” I didn't answer. “Very well. You are embarrassed—a feeling without value. But so my conjecture has been proved. So Nyai does desire the safety of her daughter. That is why you are embarrassed to tell me. You have already slept in the same room with her. I'm not mistaken?”

I could not look at his face anymore. “Don't misunderstand me,” he said hurriedly. “I have no desire to interfere in your affairs. For me the only important thing is Annelies's well-being, her well-being as a patient—and therefore also, of course, your own and Nyai's well-being. All I hope from you is assistance. Aid in understanding. My guess needs to be verified. That is the only medicine for her. Your personal confidences and those of all my patients are safe and secure with me. I will always be a doctor, you are one only temporarily. Tell me about it."

To give me a chance to put myself in order, he went out to the back room for a minute. He returned carrying lemon drink and poured some into a glass for me.

"Why do you serve this yourself, Doctor?" “There is no one else in this house. Only me.” “No washer or houseboy?” “No.” “You do everything yourself?” “A Servant comes and works three hours a day, then goes.” “Your food?” “A restaurant looks after that. Let's continue. Have a drink first. I know you need to get up some courage.” He smiled sweetly.

And I had no courage. “When the need arises,” he began to advise me, “you must dare to learn and learn to dare to look upon yourself as a third person. I don't mean a third person in the grammatical sense. Look: As a first person you think, plan, give orders. As a second person, you consider, you reject, or on the other hand you could approve, accept what the first person suggests. And the third person—who is that?—that is you as somebody else, as a problem”—he tapped the table with his fingertips—“as an actor, as somebody else that you see in the mirror. Tell me now about yourself as the third person, as seen in the mirror by yourself as first and second person." “What must I tell you?” I asked once again. “Anything at all about your relations with your patient.” “How must I begin?” “So you are willing. Let me lead the way into the problem. Actually it's not that you cannot begin, but rather it's because you, as second person, are not fully willing. Let us begin. You have begun to live in the same room as Annelies. Now, continue on yourself.” “Yes, Doctor.” “Excellent. Nyai has never forbidden you or become angry because of this?” “You are not mistaken, Doctor.” “It's not I who is not mistaken, but. Nyai. She has done the better thing in looking after the well-being of her daughter. So she carried out that advice. Let's go on further. You sleep separately or in the same bed?” “Not separated.” “When did this begin?” “Two or three months ago.” “Long enough to get to know Annelies's major fears. Have you had intercourse with Annelies?”

I shook. “Why are you shaking? Listen well: Here the problem is the important thing. Who kno if a similar problem will confront us some day in the future? Do you need another drink?” “Excuse me, Doctor, I need to visit the toilet.” “Of course,” and he showed me the way.

I met no one inside or outside the house. Still and silent like a graveyard.

Once in the bathroom I washed my face. I wet my hair. I felt the refreshing coolness of the water and my heart was refreshed too. I wiped away the dripping water with my handkerchief. Then I used the comb and mirror that was there. That is the third Minke.

As soon as I had sat down before him, he resumed: “The more you try to hide things, the more tense you will become.”

He was becoming increasingly able to peep into my psyche.

I became nervous again. And there was nowhere I could hide my face. “Come on. Give me reason to be even more thankful to you.

I don't need to ask questions anymore, do I? You can continue the story by yourself."

I shook my head. I couldn't. “Very well, if you still need a guide. You have slept in the same bed with her. You have had intercourse with her. Then you found out she was not a virgin. You had been preceded by some one else.” “Doctor!” I exclaimed. Without my realizing it, my nerves gave way and I began to sob uncontrollably. “Yes, cry, Minke, cry like a baby; still innocent like at the time of your birth.”

Why was I crying like this? In front of another person? Neither my mother nor my father? What was it that was worrying me? Perhaps I did not want my secret, our secret together, to be found out by others? “So my guess was right. Truly you do love this girl. Her loss is your loss. You have lost something, and you want to hide that loss from the world. She was no longer a virgin. Yes, keep on crying, but answer my question. It's not the last question. It's important to get a picture of Annelies's first sexual relations in order to understand its influence upon her. A person's first sexual relations are soldered into the emotions of human beings, and can indeed determine a person's sexual makeup. No, no, that's not quite right. I should have said: It can determine a person's sexual makeup in the future. Now the question is: Has Annelies ever said or even been willing to say who it was? That first one? Or more accurately the first of those before you?” “I can't, Doctor,” I exclaimed in my pain. “The third Minke must come forward. And it's not the last question yet. Who was he?”

I didn't answer. “So you do know who he or they were?”

"Not them, Doctor, him." “Very well, himl” He closed his eyes as if absorbing something. Then that question of his, which I did not wish at all to hear, struck like a thunderclap bringing me to consciousness: “Yes, him. Of course, him. Who was he?”

"Ah, Doctor, Doctor!" “Very well, you don't need mention his name. Do you consider this person to be a good person or not? I don't mean in relation to sexual passions but in his day-to-day behavior.” “I don't dare, Doctor, I haven't the right to judge.” “It seems that you consider everything to be a personal secret or a family secret, or a secret of your future family at least. Yes, it's very moving—this loyalty of yours to all the members of your family or your family-to-be.” He looked the other way as if to give me some freedom to use my own face. “At the very least I can make a guess at who the person was, especially now that I've seen your reaction. You are still young, very young, and it is you—even if only temporarily—who are Annelies's real doctor. So you must be strong. You are fond of her, even if you're unwilling to say you love her. I myself prefer to use the latter term. You have shown you are willing to accept the consequences of her deficiencies, to accept responsibility for her well-being. No matter what happens, you will not let go of her, because thousands of eagles will destroy her. Her beauty is indeed extraordinary, that Creole beauty which conquers people, no matter what country they come from. You will end up making her your wife, whichever way you look at it. Be a good doctor to her, now, tomorrow, and forever. The older we become the more complex becomes this life which confronts us, so the more courageous we must be in facing it.”

The longer he spoke the clearer became the vision of Robert Mellema, scorning and insulting me, threatening me, glancing out of the corners of his eyes at me and waving his fists. “Yes, it's your own reaction which has confirmed my guesses. If you're unprepared either to confirm or deny them, what can I do?”

"Doctor, Doctor... her own brother, Robert Mellema."

The glass of lemon drink in my host's hand fell to the floor broken. I jumped up from my chair and ran out to my buggy.

Dr. Martinet visited us several more times. Usually he came in the late afternoon when Nyai Ontosoroh and Annelies had finished work. They all sat in the front yard chatting and listening to the music from the phonograph. I could see his buggy enter the compound and would come out to meet him after I had bathed.

After that earthshaking interview, about which I never told anyone except my diary, my respect for him became deeper and more unqualified. I didn't just look upon him as a doctor of great skill, a scholar of great humanity, but also as somebody who was able to plant the seeds of new strength within me. How he strived to understand other people! Not only to understand, but to hold out a helping hand—as a doctor, as a human being, as a teacher. He was a friend of humanity—a title that Magda Peters was to use for him some time later. He could show his friendship in so many different ways. And no matter in what way he did it, people were moved to put their trust in him. Sometimes I felt ashamed that I had been suspicious of him, even though it was my right to feel that way.

After observing him for a long time, my estimation of his age changed. Not in his forties, but in his fifties. His face was always that fresh, reddish color, and young. No lines of age disfigured his face. Every one of his statements was interesting and had content. He was a very clever storyteller, and without their knowing, he noted down people's reactions to his stories as a way of becoming acquainted with and understanding his patients. That's my guess anyway. I could be wrong.

During a visit to the house of an important citizen to arrange an order for a family portrait, I found that person reading an English magazine. When he went inside to fetch something, the magazine was left lying open on the table. Indeed a coincidence. And even more a coincidence that I needed to take a peep into the magazine and found an article by Dr. Martinet inside. Its title was “The Beginning of a New Age of Social Transformations as a Source of New Illnesses.” In a box there was a paragraph that announced that any therapy that did not take into account the patient's social background was still primitive.

The man returned and I put the magazine down again. Since that moment I knew that Dr. Martinet was also a writer. Not a writer of stories like me, but a scientific writer.

And when he arrived that afternoon I tried to observe his behavior more carefully. I no longer needed to fear him, scared that he would peep into my psyche.

As usual his story that time also contained a message, even though it was told jokingly. It was about twins who, ever since they were children, ate from the same plate and drank from the same bowl. As soon as they entered adulthood, though their faces were identical, they became different people. Each was moved by different desires and dreams. Their desires and dreams shared the same origins. They were born out of an unfulfilling reality and also of differing images of themselves, of what they wanted to become.

At first I didn't understand what he was getting at. Mamma and Annelies didn't say anything either. Perhaps they were bored, but then he added: “Like Miss Annelies here. She has everything: money, a mother who loves her, incomparable beauty, many skills. But there is still something that she feels she does not or does not yet have. You must recognize that she has such a desire. If not it will become an illness. And unconscious desire can govern one's body with great viciousness, showing no pity. Both emotions and thoughts are controlled by it, governed by it. If such a desire is not recognized people can behave as if ill—as if disturbed. Miss, what is it that you/want so much that you have fallen ill?” “There isn't anything. Truly there's nothing.” “And so why have you all of a sudden gone red? Isn't it true you want Mr. Minke?”

Annelies glanced at me, then bowed down her head. “Nyai, if I may make a suggestion, marry these two at the very first opportunity.” He looked straight at me. “And Mr. Minke, you have learned to dare? Learned to be strong as well as daring to learn?”

He didn't continue. A rented carriage entered the compound. The driver helped his passenger down: Jean Marais. May jumped down, then led her father along.

I introduced them to the others: “Jean Marais, artist, designer of household furniture, French nationality, my friend doesn't speak Dutch.”

The atmosphere changed. The problem was that Dr. Martinet didn't understand Malay. Mama and Annelies didn't understand French, even though Dr. Martinet did. Only May and I knew all their languages. And May quickly stuck to Annelies.

Dr. Martinet nodded his head seeing Annelies's joy in gaining a younger sister while May obtained an elder sister. In a second he directed his eyes at Jean, and asked in French: “How many children do you have?” * “There have been no opportunities for May to have brothers or sisters, Doctor,” and his answer and his eyes radiated his displeasure at having to answer that question.

But Martinet, with his practice of piercing through into another's psyche, paid no attention and continued in Dutch addressed to no one in particular: “How beautiful it would be if it were possible for the two girls to get together. It should have happened long ago.”

Meanwhile Annelies had taken May inside the house. They didn't come out again. Their laughter and chatter could be heard in the distance, sometimes in Malay, sometimes in Dutch and Javanese. Jean Marais shook his head as he listened to his child's voice. His face shone. But the atmosphere still remained awkward. Dr. Martinet felt uncomfortable. He excused himself, and climbed aboard the carriage that was waiting for him beside the house. “Mr. Marinet is a very clever Doctor,” I said in Malay. “It was he who cured Annelies. We are very grateful. This friend of mine here, Jean Marais, has come to ask permission to paint Mama, if Mama agrees and has time.” “What's the use of being painted?” “Madam,” Jan responded. “Nyai, sir, not madam.” “Minke greatly admires madam—" “Nyai, sir.” “—as an extraordinary Native woman. He is always singing madam's praises—” “Nyai, sir.” “—so we are in agreement that they should be made eternal in a picture. In the future, who knows if in one or forty years, people will still know who you are and be able to admire you.” “I'm sorry, but I have no desire to be admired.” “That can be understood. Only stupid people admire themselves. But it is not madam herself who admires madam, no—but rather the living witnesses of the age.” “It's a pity, sir—I'm not willing. Not even to have my photo taken.” “If so, yes, it's indeed a great pity. If so—if so—may I then just look upon madam so as to memorize you in my heart?” he asked politely and awkwardly. Nyai went red. “So that I can do the painting at home.”

Nyai's gaze swept from me across to the house, then to the signboard in the distance. Finally it settled on the garden table. She looked disturbed, embarrassed, and her movements were awkward. “No, no sir.” She was embarrassed. “And you, Minke, what have you been saying about me outside?”

"Nothing bad, Madam. Only praise."

Seeing the confusion Nyai was in, I spoke up quickly: “Mama doesn't want to be painted now. Perhaps at some other time.” “Not at any time.” “He's my friend, Mama.” “Then he's my friend too.”

Jean Marais, who had always been sensitive, perhaps because of his deformity, looked nervous and as if he wanted to leave quickly. His eyes nervously sought out his daughter, but only her voice could be heard singing in the distance. “She is inside, sir,” said Nyai. “Please come in.”

We entered. The gay singing of May and Annelies became clearer. And Nyai seemed to be very happy to hear it. I'd never heard Annelies singing while I'd been at Wonokromo. It seemed as if she was returning to her childhood, a period that was far too short, torn away from her by responsibilities and work.

Jean was lost in silent daydreaming.

"Mr. Marais," said Mama after we had all been sitting silently in the front room. "Your child, it seems, has brought a gust of fresh air to this house. What about if she comes here often, just as Dr. Martinet suggested?" “If the child wants to, I can see no reason why she shouldn't.” His voice was despondent, as if he Was afraid of losing something. “Minke, Nyo, invite Mr. Marais to stay overnight.” “What about it, Jean, would you like that?”

For the umpteenth time I saw how awkward this artist was this creator of beauty. He couldn't even answer such a simple thing. He gazed at me, not knowing what to do. “Yes, Jean, you should stay the night. Tomorrow, early in the morning, I'll take you back to the workshop so you don't have to open late.”

He nodded in agreement, forgetting to say thank you for such a friendly invitation.

That night as we lay in the same bed before going to sleep, trying out Dr. Martinet's method of conversing, I asked: “Jean, you seem dispirited lately. Are you still lamenting over your past? I'm sorry.” “That is the question of a writer, Minke. You're truly a writer now, one hundred percent.” “It's not that Jean. I'm sorry. I'm far, far younger than you, Jean, with far less experience and knowledge. Will you answer, Jean?” “It's a very personal thing. And moreover I'm going to close the matter with the completion of that painting I started a while ago. Are you going to write about me?” “You are a very individual person, Jean. Yes, providing I can do it properly. What is it that you really desire, Jean?” “Desire? Ah, you! You are an artist. I am an artist. Every artist desires—dreams about—reaching the peak of his success. Success! And he gathers together all his energy, Minke, only to defend that success, a success that always torments and oppresses him.” “But your voice is so despondent, as if you no longer believe that such success will ever come.” “Such a question! You are truly already an artist. I hope that question was born from your own spiritual struggles, a fruit of your own recent work. It is truly not the question of somebody your age. A question that contains authority. Do you believe in your own questions?"

I stopped. I asked as confidently but casually as possible: “What do you mean by authority?” “In short: someone who truly understands his own questions.”

It was clear he wasn't sleepy. And it was clear too that my efforts to get him to open up had failed.

And on that night I submerged myself into so many problems. I felt I was saying good-bye to my youth, which had been so gloriously beautiful and full of victories. Yes, even though they mightn't mean anything to others. It was all these things that I had noted down that gave me the right to claim victories. And the greatest of these victories was Annelies's love. Even though, yes, even though she was no more than a fragile doll.

The evening silence was broken only by the sound of the pendulum clock.

Then I remembered a sentence once uttered by Dr. Martinet: “Nyai's dairy cattle, in the process of becoming dairy cows, fully developed cows, adult cows, need only thirteen or fourteen months. Months! Human beings need tens, even scores, of years before they grow into full adults, human beings at the peak of their abilities and their worth. There are indeed those who never grow into adults, who live off the handouts of other people and of society: the insane and criminals. The resilience and strength—or otherwise—of a person's abilities, and his worth, are directly related to the size and number of the trials he has undergone. Those who always run from tests and trials—the insane and the criminal—never reach adulthood. A cow is fully developed in only thirteen or fourteen months—and without undergoing any trials, any tests.”

Ya Allah, in truth, the trials and tests You have made me undergo have been too great for someone as young as me. My situation has forced me to grapple with questions that should not yet be my concern. Give me the strength to face every trial and test You confront me with, just as You have done with others before me ... I am not insane. And neither am I a criminal. And never will be.

That morning the sky was overcast. It had been a fine, clear week. It was only my heart that was not clear. The gray clouds that suddenly appeared within my breast warned me that a storm was on the way. Yesterday when I was out riding (all of a sudden I could ride quite well!) with Annelies—a Saturday afternoon with no school discussion—I glimpsed Fatso for a moment. Since then I had begun to feel anxious again.

I saw him on a cheap horse riding out of one of the villages on company land. In the evening, when Darsam came to my room to study reading and arithmetic, I refused to teach him. I told him there was a fat man who was acting suspiciously, who had followed me from B-----. (Yes, I had suddenly remembered: He had bought a ticket at the railway station at B------immediately after I bought mine. And I remembered too that he had arrived earlier and had hung around the platform talking to somebody.) “Yes, he's been seen several times now in the village,” Dar-sam continued, and he thought he was an ordinary peddler. “If he were a peddler, he'd have a pigtail for sure. He didn't,” I said. “Maybe he's on orders from Robert.”

Darsam didn't answer. “Where is Robert now? He hasn't been seen since I returned from B--- -- “He wouldn't dare come home. Do you remember what I told you before, Young Master? He ordered me to kill Young Master? And I said to him: My employers are Nyai and Noni; their friends are my friends. If Sinyo wants Young Master dead, it's best that it is Sinyo himself that I cut down. You're not my employer—look out! I pulled out my machete, and he ran.”

It was yesterday that our conversation took place. The appearance of Fatso cast a shadow over my soul. And the morning sun was not able to cast out the gray clouds inside me. “So you've seen Fatso?” I had asked Darsam the night before. “If you meet him again what will you do?” “If it's true he's Robert's man, he'll feel the steel of my machete.” “Hush! Don't be crazy,” I forbade. “You mustn't do that. If you did, everyone would get into big trouble. You mustn't, Darsam, you mustn't, understand?!” “I mustn't, Young Master, all right, I mustn't. But I'll beat him until all his bones are broken, so he won't be able to do anything again for the rest of his life.” “No. We don't yet know what the situation really is. If the police become involved, who'll help Mama? I can't. I'm not able.” And Darsam was silent. Then he spoke slowly and hesitantly: “All right, I will listen to Young Master.” “Yes,” I said, “you must listen. I don't want to be the cause of some disaster befalling this family. And . . . we must ensure that no one else knows about Fatso.”

And that morning I saw Darsam walking hither and thither restlessly. He was deliberately making his presence known so that I could call him at any time if I needed him. I knew: He was guarding my life from Fatso.

The three of us—Mama, Annelies, and I—were sitting on the front veranda listening to a recording of a popular song. The music jumped about like a school of river prawns at flood time. My heart was still enveloped by those gray clouds. I had a premonition: Something was going to happen.

I observed Mama and Annelies one after the other. And Mama was clearly suspicious of Darsam because of his unusual behavior. “You seem uneasy, Mama,” I said. “It's always the same. If Darsam is running about like a kitchen mouse, I always become uneasy. Something always happens; I've been restless since last night. Darsam!”

And Darsam came and stood at attention. “Why are you running about like that?” asked Mama in Madurese. “These itchy feet of mine just don't seem to want to stay still; they keep moving about of their own accord, Nyai.” “Why aren't your itchy feet itchy out at the back?” “What can I do, Nyai, these feet of mine keep taking me to the front.” “All right. But your face is so frightening. Harsh. Your eyes are wide open and are thirsting for blood.”

Darsam forced himself to laugh exuberantly and left after raising his hand in respect. His mustache still waved up and down as if he were pronouncing some mantra. His eyes were indeed wide open today, as if his ears were capturing some mysterious voice from the heavens.

"Why are you so quiet, Ann?" I asked. “It's nothing,” and she rose and went over to the phonograph and turned it off. “Why did you turn it off?” Mama asked. “I don't know, Mama, the music just sounds like a lot of noise today.” “Perhaps Minke still wants to listen to it?” “It's all right, Mama. Ann, do you still remember the man who was riding the horse yesterday?” “Wearing the brown-striped pajamas?” I nodded. “Who is he?” “Who was riding a horse? Where?” Mama asked hurriedly. “In the village, Mama,” Annelies explained. “No one has ever visited the villages on horseback. Except for Mrs. Karyo's son, the watchman at D.P.M.” “It wasn't him, Mama. And he never wears pajamas when he comes home to visit his parents. This man was fat, clear langsat-colored skin, a bit slant-eyed.” “Darsam!” Mama called. “Ah, see Nyai, that's why I need to have itchy feet!”

And Mama didn't respond to his jest. “Who was the fat man on the horse in the village yesterday?” “Just a peddler, Nyai.” “Nonsense. Since when do peddlers ride horses? Your behavior is strange today too. Even if he could rent one, he wouldn't know how to ride. Did he have a pigtail?”

Darsam, very unusually, laughed boisterously for a second time, trying to hide something. Then: “Since when has Nyai lost faith in Darsam?” He wiped his mustache with the back of his arm. “Darsam! You're really strange today.”

And the Madurese fighter laughed again, saluted, and left without another word. “He's hiding something!” Mama mumbled. “I feel more and more uneasy. Let's go inside.”

Unable anymore to read, she stood up and went inside. “Darsam, and Mama too, Mas, they're behaving so strangely,” said Annelies. “Why?” “How do I know? Let's go inside.”

Annelies went in. I stood there surveying the scene, and then I saw Darsam running towards the main gate with his unsheathed machete in his right hand. And outside, for just a moment, I glimpsed Fatso walking along the road in the direction of Surabaya. He was wearing an ivory-yellow suit, white hat, and white shoes, and was carrying a cane, like someone out on a picnic. My earlier suspicion, that he could be a Majoor der Chineezen, no longer held.

On seeing Darsam I called out straight away: “No, Darsam! No!” and I ran after him.

And Darsam didn't listen to me. He kept on after Fatso. I had no choice, I ran after Darsam to try to stop him. Nothing must happen. And Darsam kept on after Fatso. And I kept on running too, yelling out for him to stop—running with all my strength.

From behind me, I heard Annelies cry out: “Mas! Mas!”

I glanced back for a moment. Annelies was running after me.

It seemed that Fatso knew he was being chased. He ran with all his might to save that abundance of flesh from the fighter's machete. Now and then he glanced back. “Tso! Fatso! Stop!” Darsam shouted hoarsely.

Fatso bent down so he could run faster. “Darsam! Come back! Don't go on!” I shouted. “Mas, Mas, don't follow them!” exclaimed Annelies from behind me, shrilly and loudly.

I reached the main gate. Fatso was out ahead, heading straight for Surabaya. Darsam was getting closer. “Anneliesss! Aaaaan! Anneliesssss! Come Baaaack!” Nyai could be heard calling out.

When I looked back I saw Mama, holding her kain up high, chasing her daughter. Her hair had fallen free and loose; Fatso was running to save himself. Darsam chased after Fatso. I chased after Darsam. Annelies chased me. And Nyai chased her daughter. “Darsam! Listen to me! Don't!”

And he took no notice. He ran and ran. In a moment he would catch up with Fatso, who would then lose his head. No! It must not happen. “Mas! Mas! Don't join in!” exclaimed Annelies. “Ann, Anneliessss, come home!” exclaimed Mama.

And if Fatso had run on in the direction of Surabaya, he would have died for sure. The road was quiet on a Sunday, with . just paddy, paddy everywhere, Ah Tjong's brothel, and Nyai's paddy, paddy and fields, and more paddy, and only then forest. It seemed he knew the area. His only chance: to turn into Ah Tjong's yard. He did it, and disappeared from my view. “Don't turn!” ordered Darsam to his intended victim. “Darsaaam! Alaaa! Darsam!” I exclaimed.

Then the fighter turned also and disappeared. “Don't go in there!” came Nyai's indistinct shout. “Don't go in there!” Annelies passed it on.

And now I too turned into Ah Tjong's compound. Fatso wasn't to be seen anywhere. There was only Darsam standing, confused, not knowing what to do next.

The front doors and windows were closed as usual. When I caught up with Darsam he was still panting. I too was out of breath. “The rat has disappeared, I don't know where he's gone, Young Master.” “All right, let's go home. Don't keep on.” “No, he has to be taught a lesson.”

There was no stopping him. He walked past the row of windows along the side of the house. “Mas! Don't go into that house!” called out Annelies from her neighbor's gate. “Mama forbids it.” But she herself had entered, tottering, into the front of the yard.

Darsam looked left and right. I pulled at him to make him return. He ignored me. His naked machete remained outside its sheath. In the end, I too became wild-eyed.

It turned out that Babah Ah Tjong's building was much bigger than it appeared to be from the outside. There was a long annex at the back. Almost all the surrounding grounds were garden, with fruit trees and flowers. They were all very well looked after. Everywhere could be seen thick heavy-looking black-painted benches. A narrow path, covered with layers of river gravel, cut up the yard into little sections.

For just a moment I caught sight of a couple. They didn't see us. Such views were never visible from outside, closed off by high, thick, multirowed walls.

Darsam turned right, circling the main building. There didn't seem to be anybody around. A back door was standing wide open. Behind me, Annelies had passed the row of side windows. Nyai's shouts could be heard more clearly: “No, don't go inside!” ' And without hesitating Darsam went inside. He stopped, looked left and right, with his machete still in his hand.

And I too entered.

A large room, a dining room, opened up before us, complete with furniture: table and chairs, a buffet with all sorts of crockery inside. Mirrors painted with Chinese calligraphy hung on the walls. A few Japanese paper paintings of ocean prawns, bamboo, and horses also hung on the walls.

Suddenly Darsam Was startled, and stopped dead in his tracks. His two arms shot out and stopped me from going any farther. I kept going on. What was there?

The body of a European lay in the corner of the dining room. The body was long and big, fat, large-stomached. Its blond hair was already threaded with gray and he was somewhat bald. His right hand was raised up on his head. His left hand lay on his chest. His throat and neck were covered in yellow vomit. The smell of liquor filled the room. His shirt and pants were filthy, as if they hadn't been washed for a month. “Tuan!” whispered Darsam. “Tuan Mellema!”

Hearing that name I shuddered, and shuddered again as I approached the person with that familiar body, fatter than I had seen before, sprawled in the corner like a meditating ascetic. He was possibly in an extraordinary state of drunkenness or had fallen asleep after vomiting.

Darsam approached, crouched, and felt and pushed the body with his left hand. In his right hand his unsheathed machete was alert. The body did not move. Darsam then shook it back and forward, then felt the man's breast.

I came up close. It was indeed Mellema. “Dead!” hissed the fighter. Only then did he glance at me, and continue his hissed speech: “Dead. Tuan Mellema is dead.” And the frightening look on his face disappeared at once.

Annelies appeared at the door, calling hoarsely, out of voice, panting. “Mas, don't go inside this house!”

I went outside, down the stairs, pulling her by the shoulder. Mama arrived, also gasping. Her face was red and her hair was disheveled and all over the place, falling in a mess across her ears, face, neck, and back. She was soaked in sweat. “Come on, come home! Everyone! Don't go into that accursed house!” she whispered, gasping. “Young Master!” called Darsam from inside. “Don't enter!” I now forbade Annelies and Mama. And I entered.

Darsam was rocking Mellema's body. The machete was still in his right hand. “He's dead all right,” he said, “he's not breathing. The blood has stopped too.”

Annelies and Mama were suddenly behind me. “Papa?” whispered Annelies. “Yes, Ann, your Papa.” “Tuan?” whispered Nyai. “Dead, Nyai, Noni: Tuan Mellema is dead,” said Darsam.

The two women stepped closer, then stood still in a daze. “That smell of liquor!” whispered Nyai. “Mama?” “Ann, take note of that smell,” whispered Nyai again, without stepping closer. “Do you remember it?” “Like Robert that time, Mama?” “Yes, when he began to go mad too,” continued Nyai, “and like Tuan the first time. Tuan went that way too. Don't get close, Ann, don't.”

All of a sudden everyone looked up when they heard a woman's footsteps. And they saw a female in a yellow kimono patterned with big red and black flowers. Her skin was more white than yellow: a Japanese woman. Her quick, short steps brought her in our direction. Then she spoke to us in Japanese with a clear and attractive voice. We couldn't understand.

As an answer I pointed to the corpse strewn in the corner of the dining room. She shook her head and shuddered, turned right, and ran off with those short steps, more quickly, and went into the inner section of the house through a corridor.

We followed her with our amazed looks. That was the first time I had seen a Japanese woman. The round face, slanted, narrow eyes, the cherry-red, parted lips, one gold tooth: I don't think I'll ever forget it.

Not long after, out of the same corridor, there emerged the body of a tall man, an Indo, thin, with sunken eyes. “Mama,” whispered Annelies, “Robert, Mama.”

Only then did I recognize that handsome youth, who had changed so much. It was indeed Robert.

Hearing Robert's name spoken, Darsam jumped up, forgetting Mellema's corpse. “Nyo!” he shouted.

Robert stopped that moment. His eyes shot wide open. As soon as he recognized Darsam and saw the machete, he turned and ran. Darsam chased him.

Annelies, Nyai, and I were nailed to the floor. Dazed. For a second I imagined Robert sprawled out covered in blood, with a gaping stab wound. But no. Darsam came back again. He wiped his mustache. His face was wild. “He ran, Nyai. Went into a room, jumped out the window.

I don't know where to." “Enough, Darsam, enough.” Only then could Nyai talk. “Don't keep on with this craziness. He's my son.” Her voice vibrated. “Look after your Tuan.” “Very well, Nyai.”

Annelies held her mother's sleeve; she was shivering. “See,” Nyai hissed, holding back her anger, “nothing goes right. You go home, Ann. What did I say? Don't come into this house of sin. Pick up and carry back your Tuan, Darsam.” “Borrow a cart,” I instructed Darsam.

Only then did the fighter sheath his machete and go outside. Now Nyai stiffened as she looked at her master's corpse, while Annelies buried her face in her mother's breasts. “Didn't want to be looked after properly. Preferred to be looked after by a neighbor. Ah Tjong! Ah Tjong!” Nyai called out. “Ah Tjong! Babah!” and the person being called did not appear.

Darsam entered again, frowning: “The impudent caretaker won't lend us a carriage.” “Where's Babah?” “He's not here, he said.”

"Fetch our own carriage." “Let me go,” I said. “You two stay here,” said Nyai. “I'll go back. Come on, we'll go home, Ann!” and she pulled her child along.

The two women held hands, leading each other out of Mr. Tjong's pleasure-house through the back door. They took no notice of Mellema's gaping-mouthed corpse, sprawled out on the floor.

I saw then just how totally Nyai had broken with her master. She was not even prepared to touch him, even though he was the father of her children. She could never forgive him. “Such a good beginning, such a hateful end, Young Master,” Darsam grumbled. “What he hunted he lost, what he caught was cursed.”

Soon after, there was the sound of uproar from the rooms. Women could be heard running about. “Babah Ah Tjong's whores,” hissed Darsam. “Five years Tuan nested here, here too he died. Dying in a whore's nest. Tuan! Tuan Mellema! Five years Nyai maintained her'wrath. Even on his death, she showed no concern . . . human trash!” “And Robert was here too.” “Under the same roof, with the same whores. Damned ones!” “Mama had to pay for it all?” “A bill came every month.” “Don't move the corpse,” I ordered him.

A carriage arrived. Not Annelies, not Mama. Four police officers and their commandant, an Indo. They made an examination. One took notes of everything said by his commandant. “Has he been moved?” the commandant asked in Malay. “A little. I shook him,” answered Darsam in Madurese. “Where's the owner of the house?” “Not here.” “Who lives here?” He took out his pocket watch, looked at it for a moment, and then put it back.

Not one of the house's inhabitants appeared. “Who saw the body first?”

Darsam coughed, as his answer. “What's the explanation of why the whole of the Boerderij household turned up here?” he asked in Madurese.

My heart pounded fast. There was no way of stopping it from becoming a police affair now. And all will be involved in difficulties. “I was chasing Fatso.” “Who is this Fatso?” “A suspicious character. He ran, I chased him, and he disappeared into here,” Darsam explained. “You entered someone else's house? Without permission?” “There was no one here when we arrived. Anyone can enter here without permission. It's a pleasure-house.” “But you didn't come here for that.” “I've already told you”—Darsam was offended—“we came after Fatso. Perhaps a customer here.”

The commandant laughed insultingly. And the other policemen lifted Up the corpse. Not strong enough. Darsam helped, just to avoid more questions. “Very well. What are your names?”

So Darsam and I were taken away in the government carriage. We were questioned more thoroughly at the station. And ... in the end Father would indeed read his son's name in the paper—the cleverest among his children, the one the whole family was proud of, involved in a police case, and a dirty one—in a pleasure-house too—all just as Father had predicted.

That day we found out that Mr. Mellema died of poisoning. His vomit and the phlegm in his mouth and throat pointed to this fact. According to the investigations of Dr. Martinet, who was asked to conduct the autopsy, the poison had been given in low dosages over a long period, so that the victim had become used to it. On the day of his death he had received a dosage two or three times greater than usual.

And in the end it did happen. Reports began to appear in the daily press: the death of one of Surabaya's richest men, the owner of Boerderij Buitenzorg, Tuan Mellema, dead in Babah Ah Tjong's Wonokromo pleasure house; dying in poisoned alcoholic vomit! And our names were mentioned over and over again.

Reporters kept coming to our house: Native, Chinese, Indo, and Pure European. Mama and Annelies refused to answer any questions. It was I who forbade them to open their mouths. And in the street outside, people collected to watch us. Yes, we were beginning to be regarded as freaks on show.

None of us was detained. I used the opportunity to write a report of what really happened and it was published by the S.N. v/d D. A long time later I found out that my reports had increased the paper's circulation. People in other towns also sought that Surabaya paper because it was considered a credible source. The unnatural death of a wealthy man always gives rise to many suspicions and rumors.

I used my week's leave from school to write, to repudiate all the false and tendentious reports. But then there appeared another report, allegedly from police sources, that the police were carrying out investigations and were hunting for Fatso and Robert Mel-lema, who was the eldest of the Mellema children, both of whom were strongly suspected of conspiring to kill Robert's own father.

Who was this Fatso? One Malay-Chinese daily asked. The article mentioned the possibility that he could be a recently arrived Chinese illegal immigrant. Perhaps he was a member of that group calling itself the Chinese Young Generation, who wanted to overthrow the Empire. One of their special features:-They wore no pigtails! And, indeed, Fatso wore no pigtail Maybe he had come to Java because he was being pursued by the British police in Hong Kong or Singapore. Now he was making trouble in Surabaya. Firm action needs to be taken against illegal immigrants, especially those without pigtails, who obviously had criminal intentions.

This guess was based on no more than a sucking of one's thumb! I replied to that Malay-Chinese paper. He indeed was slant-eyed—but that is not a characteristic unique to Chinese. He had no pigtail—but that too need not be interpreted as a sign he was a member of the Chinese Young Generation.

The result of my article was that the police questioned S.N.v/d D. about Fatso. Maarten Nijman refused on principle to give any explanation. Actually he didn't really know what it was all about anyway. For his refusal, he was detained for three days and nights.

Miriam and Sarah de la Croix expressed their sympathy to me, to us, and were sure that we were innocent of any wrongdoing. Greetings also came from Herbert de la Croix, who hoped that we would be able to face all our trials with strength and patience and that we would get through them all safely.

Mother's letters, so moving, told of her sadness, as well as telling me of Father's fury, which had reached such a peak that he actually said he no longer acknowledged me as his son. He had even written a letter to the director of my school withdrawing me from school!

In the next letter from Mother, also written in Javanese language and script, she said that it was not certain that I was in the wrong, and she hoped I would be the one who cleared the matter

up. And that Assistant Resident B------had visited father to calm

him down and to pass on to him the above words; and also to say that my living at Boerderij Buitenzorg did not necessarily have any connection with anything indecent; that such a matter can occur as a result of one's own actions, but also can occur as a completely unrelated accident; no one can guess when such an accident, such a disaster, would befall them. Father did not contradict him. But to his sons and daughters he said: To become involved with the police is to shame and humiliate me, and whoever does become mixed up in a police affair is unfit to be near me.

I replied to all the letters. Responding to Father's pronouncement I wrote: If that is what is desired by Father, so be it; so from now on I will devote myself only to my mother.

My elder brother wrote to me: Mother was bathed in her own tears on reading your reply. She cried over your attitude, why did you approach your father, who was already so furious with you with such lack of devotion, as if he was a father who had never wished anything good for you, his own son. You are his son, you are young; it is you who must surrender.

And I didn't reply to my brother's letter. Let my father be free with his own attitude. Especially too as I didn't really know my father well. Since I was little I had lived with grandfather, so father was really no more than a title to me. Every time I met him, all he wanted was for his authority as a father to be acknowledged. It was up to him! I had no business with his anger and his attitude. If Father withdraws me from H.B.S., that too is his right. And a Native only got into school if someone with position guaranteed him. Only it was not Father who guaranteed me, but Grandfather. And it was not certain that the school director would accept Father's request. If he did, so be it. I now felt that I had accumulated enough means to study by myself, to enter the world walking on my own two feet.

Four days after Mr. Mellema's corpse was found he was buried at the European cemetery in Peneleh. We all attended. Most of those who attended were inhabitants of the business's villages. Seven reporters also witnessed the event, along with Dr. Martinet, Jean Marais, and Telinga. The burial was organized by the Ver-brugge Burial Company.

Dr. Martinet took the job of representing the Mellema family. During the burial ceremony he told of his great sympathy for the Mellema family, especially Nyai Ontosoroh and Annelies, all of whom had been put through such trials over the last five years. Only a person who was truly strong could bear them. And the person involved was a Native, too, who was aided only by her clever and adroit daughter. And those trials weren't over yet, because the matter still had to come to court.

His pronouncements, expressed as they were as sympathy, were soon reproduced in the colonial press, both Malay and Dutch. Dr. Martinet became a target for journalists who demanded an explanation of his speech. He, who understood that such an explanation would be turned into a sensational serialized story, remained unrelentingly silent. So the Dutch-language press in their own way and style rejected Dr. Martinet's sympathy, which was directed at one who was only a Native woman, and a concubine too, who perhaps was not even clear of any wrongdoing in the case. There have been many proven cases of nyais conspiring with outsiders to murder their masters. The motives: lust and wealth. In the nineteenth century alone, there could be listed at least five nyais who had gone to the gallows. Even the character Nyai Dasima, of the popular Malay novel, could have carried out the same crime, had not her master, Edward Williams, been such a wise person. But even her story ended with a killing. Only it wasn't Edward Williams who was the victim—but Dasima herself. The paper closed its piece with the suggestion that Nyai Ontosoroh be investigated more thoroughly. Meanwhile a Betawi paper suggested that this person Minke was a character who should be more thoroughly investigated.

Dr. Martinet and Maarten Nijman collected a great many newspapers from other towns and passed them on to us.

After reading all their comments and proposals, Mama stated: “They can't stand seeing Natives not being trodden under their feet. Natives must always be in the wrong, Europeans must be innocent, so therefore Natives must be wrong to start with. To be born a Native is to be in the wrong. We're facing a more difficult situation now, Minke, my son. [That was the first time she called me 'my son,' and tears came to my eyes when I heard it.] Will you run from us, child?” “No, Mama. We'll face it together. We too have friends.

And, I ask Mama, don't think of this Minke here as a criminal.” “They have all the means they need to make us scapegoats.

But while none of us have been arrested—especially Darsam—it means the police haven't been influenced.”

Another article, obviously written by Robert Suurhof, accused me of being an unashamed sponger, sucking up other people's wealth and representing myself to the public as a “church-bird-without-sin”; but I was actually someone without a family name, without anything: My only capital, it said, was my crocodile daring.

The paper wasn't, of course, the S.N. v/d D., but a daily famous for its addiction to scandals and sensations in all fields, with staff who were sensation maniacs. Or as Dr. Martinet put it: sick people, like Titus in Roman times. Dr. Martinet visited us to express his solidarity. “Don't drown.”

No matter how one humored oneself, no matter what salve one applied to one's heart, Suurhofs article struck hard. The pain was felt even in the hairs on my neck. “I'll take him to court, Mama.” “No!” forbade Nyai. “You'll never win.” “If Mama refuses to confirm what he says, I'll have already won.” “Mama is on your side,” said the woman. “But you'll never win if you take it before the law. You'd be facing a European, Nyo. The prosecutor and judge will do you in and you don't have any court experience. Not all attorneys and barristers can be trusted, especially where the case is one of a Native suing a European. Answer that article with another of your own. Challenge him with words.”

This person who says he knows me is perhaps my friend; a good friend or a bad friend, I answered in my article. Why doesn't he show his face in the open, why does he prefer to hide behind a mask when he launches his filth? Come out in the open, sir, show your own face. Why are you ashamed of your own face, your own name, and your own deeds?

My article, which was first published by Maarten Nijman, was then circulated more widely through an auction paper that had been able to turn itself into a general daily as a result of the Herman Mellema affair, though most of the paper was still advertisements. In all of Surabaya there were six auction companies. Each had their own auction paper. Only one was able to turn itself into a proper daily newspaper.

How much have I stolen from the late Herman Mellema? Tell us, sir. Give it all in detail if you can. You can ask assistance from Herman Mellema's family. Hire an accountant if you like, I wrote.

Truly, I would never have guessed. The attacks on me came roaring in. Mama was right—and I hadn't even brought it to court. The controversy didn't focus on the truth or otherwise of the accusation that I was a sponger sucking on Herman Mellema's wealth. The burning issue shifted to color difference: European versus Native. Papers in the other towns started meddling in the affair. So for one month I had not a single opportunity to look at schoolwork. My daily business was to respond to people's igno- ranee. Maarten Nijman gave me every report attacking us, and I had to reply.

Miss Magda Peters also came to express her sympathy: “Yes, this is how it is in all colonies: Asia, Africa, America, Australia. Everything that is not European, and especially if it is not colonial, is trodden upon, laughed at, humiliated, for no other reason than to prove the supremacy of Europe and of colonial might in every matter—not excluding ignorance. Don't forget, Minke, those who first came to the Indies were mere adventurers, people Europe itself had exiled. Here they try to be even more European. Trash.”

We listened to her expressions of sympathy, and to the oaths, in silence.

We tried to ensure that Annelies was kept out of the affair. It seemed our efforts were fairly successful. In this way an alliance developed between Nyai and me as we confronted the world outside the house. “If you agree to fight them at my side, Minke, child, Nyo, you fight them to the end. If they later find themselves cornered, be careful—they will gang up on you. It's happened so often before. Do you dare?” “We will never rest, Mama, in dealing with this problem. I think Minke is not a criminal. I reckon, Mama, he won't run.” “Good. In that case you don't need to go back to school yet. This fight is more important than school. At school they will gang up on you and will hurt both your body and your feelings. By facing this situation now you will learn to defend yourself and to go on the attack in public, before all races. You will graduate with the diploma named fame.”

Unexpectedly, there appeared in a European-owned Malay paper an article defending me, written by someone calling himself Kommer.

If Minke, alias Max Tollenaar, has actually and quite plainly broken the law, he wrote, why have none of his accusers taken him to court? Do they consider that the law in the Netherlands Indies doesn't fulfill their needs? Or are they deliberately insulting the law and exposing the impotence of our honorable law officers? Or do these not-so-honorable gentlemen want to create a new law of their own?

As a consequence of this article several legal people began arguing among themselves, and attention was shifted away from me. And that diploma called fame, promised by Nyai, did not come my way.

Nyai Ontosoroh seemed nonplussed in facing all the possibilities. In all this extraordinary business Annelies became even more absorbed in her work. Relations with the outside world were surrendered to Mama and me. And all of a sudden I was acknowledged as the only man in the house, though not formally, of course.

The court case couldn't be put off any longer. Robert Mellema and Fatso were still not to be found. So the court was to try Babah Ah Tjong as the accused. A white court, a European court! Not because Ah Tjong had Jorum privilegiatum, the right to be tried under European law, but because the victim was European, though the accused was not, something I found out later. He was accused of the premeditated murder of Herman Mellema, murder carried out both gradually and in a final act.

Perhaps it was the biggest court case ever in Surabaya. Aroused by the reports and the arguments in the newspapers, the inhabitants of Surbaya, of all races, flocked to witness it. It was also reported that many people came from other towns. Nyai's brother from Tulangan also came.

People said it was the most expensive court trial ever. No less than four sworn interpreters were used: for Javanese and Madurese, Chinese, Japanese, and Malay. All the interpreters were Pure-Blood Europeans.

Mr. Telinga, Jean Marais, and Kommer also came. Kommer said that for as long as he'd been a journalist this much-feared building had never experienced such a cheerful group of visitors.

An owner of an auction office and paper that I knew also attended.

The Surabaya H.B.S. closed for the first time in its history: The teachers and students shifted their class to the court-building compound.

Dr. Martinet was called as an expert medical witness.

Babah Ah Tjong hired a defense lawyer from Hong Kong who spoke in English. So they had to get another interpreter.

People said that this was also the first time a Chinese had been tried by a European court.

The trial passed quickly at first. Dutch was used. It was difficult to get from Ah Tjong a confession of the motive behind the murder, even though he did confess to the poisoning using a Chinese prescription unknown to the medical world. He wouldn't tell the formula. All he would admit was that it made the victim lose his sense of balance, as was proved at trials of ten murderers in Kalisosok jail.

At first Ah Tjong denied that the mixture could do any damage. Its only use was as an aromatic for palm wine, he said. A Chinese physician was called as a witness. He repudiated Ah Tjong's explanation and the accused was pressed on this, the weakest aspect of his defense, which brought him to an eventual confession of murder.

What was his motive?

At first, Ah Tjong said he was fed up with his customer who, after five years, still didn't want to leave. But he couldn't answer the question: Why was he fed up when all this time his customer returned him a profit? And why then was Robert Mdlema taken in?

The questioning of Nyai Ontosoroh, who had become the star of the trial, made her go scarlet. She was not allowed to use Dutch and ordered to use Javanese. She refused, and used Malay. She explained that the late Herman Mellema's bill at Ah Tjong's was forty-five guilders a month. It was paid at her office to a messenger. Lately, she had received bills for Robert Mellema at sixty guilders a month.

Why did Robert have to pay so much?

Because, answered Ah Tjong, Sinyo Robert only wanted Maiko, who was the most expensive girl; and he wanted her just for himself.

Was it true that Maiko only served Robert Mellema? Maiko said no. She served whomever Ah Tjong told her to serve, including Ah Tjong himself. Especially as Robert Mellema had recently begun to lose his strength and his sexual desires.

To satisfy those interested, Maiko was questioned as to whether she had ever contracted a venereal disease while she had been a prostitute. The expert witness, Dr. Martinet, explained that it was true that Maiko had contracted syphilis.

Did not Maiko regret having spread such a sickness in another people's country? She answered that it was not her wish that she become ill. She did not make the sickness. Her task as a prostitute was only to serve the customers.

Still to satisfy those especially interested, another question was asked: Who gave the disease to you? With a clear and beautiful voice Maiko answered that she didn't know. If customers were infected because of me, it was not my fault.

Had Babah Ah Tjong ever expressed his dissatisfaction to Nyai? Nyai answered that she had never even met her neighbor. She had only met his bills. Their first meeting was in this courtroom.

Finally, the court ran into many issues that could not be cleared up and which therefore annoyed many people. The absence of Robert Mellema and Fatso was an obstacle that could not be overcome. But of all the questioning I thought out of order, the worst was that about my relationship with Annelies. It made people laugh and giggle; and both the prosecutor and judge, each in their turn, could not let pass the opportunity to ridicule our relationship in public. My relationship with Nyai was also subjected to disgusting and uncivilized insinuating questions. I was amazed that Europeans, my teachers, my civilizers, could behave in such a way.

It was fortunate that the questioning did not become too involved, though I knew that the intention was to prove whether or not sexual relations had occurred between us, in order to use any such confession as the link to connect us with the murder.

Ah Tjong made things go lighter for us with his statement that Nyai and I, as well as Annelies, had no connection with the murder. And that statement freed us from further involvement in the case.

The trial went on for two weeks. The motive for the murder still eluded the prosecutor. The judge decided to postpone his judgment. The prosecutor was ordered to find Robert Mellema, the latter to be detained and questioned. The court's decision seemed to disappoint many people. Many people, so it appeared, expected the judge to bring down a death sentence because an Oriental had carried out the premeditated ijiurder of a European. The judge ordered that Ah Tjong be kept in temporary custody.

His helpers received sentences between three and five years each. Maiko was ordered to be treated at a hospital under the care of a doctor, to be paid for by Ah Tjong, as he was her employer. Meanwhile everyone waited impatiently for Fatso and Robert to be caught.

The trial came to a temporary halt. I went back to school.

Everyone had collected in the schoolyard by the time my buggy stopped in front of the main gate. They put off their other activities just to take a look and stare at me as I passed.

Even before I had gone into class I was given a message from the school director. And so I reported to him. These were his words: “Minke, both as an individual and as representative of all the school's teachers and students I would like to congratulate you on your victory in court. I would also like personally to congratulate you on your tenacity in defending yourself from public attack. I, and all of us, are proud to have a pupil as talented as you. The court trial was followed by all the students and teachers. You no doubt already know that. You have been the focus of much attention, because you are a pupil at this school. Now I'd like you to listen to the decision of the Teachers' Council that has come out of its meetings and its rather difficult discussions about you. Based on your answers in court—I mean those concerning your relations with Annelies Mellema—the Teachers' Council has decided that you are too adult to mix with your fellow students, and in particular that you are a danger to the female students. The Teachers' Council meeting does not dare accept the responsibility of answering for the safety of the female pupils to their parents and guardians. Do you understand?" “More than understand.” “A great pity. A few more months and you would have graduated.” “So be it. It's all up to you, Director, to decide.”

He put out his hand to me and said:

"Failure in school, Minke, but success in love and life."

By the time I left the office, class had begun. I could see all the eyes directed at me through the window. I waved and they waved back. It was that response that suddenly made my heart sad at having to be parted from all these people who, it seemed, still did care about this Native, Minke.

The buggy and its driver were waiting outside. I climbed aboard quickly. As the buggy started to move, I ordered the driver to stop. Someone was running after me, calling out. Miss Magda Peters. And I climbed down. “A pity, Minke. I was unable to defend you successfully. I fought as hard as I could. It was impudent of the court to ask you about such private matters in public.” “Thank you, miss.”

She went. I climbed aboard and, at my request, the buggy set off slowly. Yes, the court was indeed impudent. The prosecutor deliberately wanted to turn our lives inside out in public—a desire that was a kind of extension of Robert Suurhofs feelings.

As if repeating Dr. Martinet's question, the prosecutor asked in Dutch, which was then translated into Javanese: “In which room do you sleep, Minke?” And indeed I refused to answer that malicious question. But with the speed of lightning the question was directed at Annelies and spoken directly in Dutch: “With whom does Miss Annelies Mellemal sleep?” And Annelies had no power to refuse to answer. So humiliating giggling and laughter was heard in the courtroom, quite loudly too.

The next question was flung at Nyai Ontosoroh: Nyai On-tosoroh, alias Sanikem, concubine of the late Mr. Herman Mel-lema: “How could Nyai allow such improper relations between Nyai's guest and Nyai's child?”

The surging laughter became more exuberant, more insult ^{A} ing, more demonstrative. The prosecutor, and the judge too, both smiled, pleased that they had been able to engage in the torment of the spirit of this Native woman, a woman envied by so many Pure and Indo of her own sex.

With a clear voice and in flawless Dutch—defying the judicial order that she use Javanese, and ignoring the pounding of the gavel—like the flood waters released from the grip of a hurricane, she began: "Honorable Judge, Honorable Prosecutor, seeing that you have already begun to make public my family affairs [hammer of the gavel; a reminder to answer questions directly], I, Nyai Ontosoroh alias Sanikem, concubine of the late Mr. Herman Mellema, look upon the relations between my daughter and my guest in a different light. I, Sanikem, am only a concubine. Out of my concubinage my daughter Annelies was born. Nobody ever challenged my relationship with Herman Mellema. Why? For the simple reason he was a Pure-Blooded European. But now people are trying to make an issue of Mr. Minke's relationship with Annelies. Why? Only because Mr. Minke is a Native? Why then isn't something said about the parents of all Indos? Between Mr. Mellema and me there were only the ties of slavery and they were never challenged by the law. Between Mr. Minke and my daughter there is a mutual and pure love. Indeed there are no legal ties between them. But when my children were born without any such ties, no one was heard objecting. Europeans are able to purchase Native women just as I was purchased. Are such purchases truer than pure love? If Europeans can act in these ways because of their superior wealth and power, why is it that a Native must become the target of scorn and insults because of pure love?"

There was turmoil in the courtroom. Nyai kept on speaking, paying no heed to the judge's gavel. She was forced to admit that Annelies was not a Native, but an Indo. And the prosecutor's voice thundered furiously: "She is an Indo, an Indo, she's above you! Minke is a Native, though with forum privilegiatum, the right to appear before this court, meaning he's above you, Nyai, but his forum can be canceled at a moment's notice. But Miss Annelies remains above Natives forever."

“Annelies, my daughter, sirs, is only an Indo, so is that why

she may not do the things her father did? It was I who gave birth to her, who reared her, who educated her without a single cent of aid from you honorable gentlemen. Or perhaps it wasn't I who have been responsible for her all this time? You gentlemen have never worked for and worried after her. Why all the fuss now?" Nyai no longer heeded the court's authority. A police officer was ordered to remove her from the courtroom. She was dragged from her place, unable to resist. But her tongue did not stop letting fly words, bullets of revenge: “Who turned me into a concubine? Who turned us all into nyais? European gentlemen, made masters. Why in these official forums are we laughed at? Humiliated? Or is it that you gentlemen want my daughter to become a concubine too?”

Her voice rang throughout the building. And all present were silenced. The police officer dragging her away moved faster to finish the job. She, this Native woman, had now become the unofficial prosecutor, plaintiff against the European race—a race now ridiculing their own deeds.

She went on speaking all the time they were dragging her away.

And now the buggy traveled slowly along roads already showing signs of the early morning traffic. And at the school court too the gavel had struck: I was no longer the same as my fellow students.

I was a danger to the girls, dismissed dishonorably from school. If, for example, the secrets of the teachers were to be exposed in public, cut open without mercy, who could guarantee they wouldn't turn out to be more corrupt? Doesn't everyone have their personal secrets, which they carry with them until death? And that prosecutor and that judge, both of whom showed me no mercy—who knows, might they themselves be keeping concubines, openly or secretly? Perhaps if there were no public or legal controls, their behavior might be even more rotten than that of Herman Mellema towards Sanikem?

Traveling along in the buggy I felt that every person I saw was pointing accusingly at me: That is Minke, who sleeps in the same room as Annelies, a woman he hasn't yet married.

That is a Minke now different from all his friends, different from everybody else—his situation was exposed in court, wasn't it? While the others weren't? And the judge and prosecutor didn't expose themselves either?

What I was feeling then, such very depressed feelings, my ancestors called nelangsa—feeling completely alone, still living among one's fellows but no longer the same; the heat of the sun is borne by all, but the heat in one's heart is borne alone. The only way to obtain relief was communion with the hearts of those of a similar fate, similar values, similar ties, with the same burdens: Nyai Ontosoroh, Annelies, Jean Marais, Darsam.

So I went to Jean's house. “You're dispirited Minke. Expelled from school? Chin up!”

And he whose chin was always buried deep could now say chin up! It felt as if all things joyous had been eliminated from my heart. “Your school is too small for you now, Minke. If Minke has been broken like this, there's still Max Tollenaar, isn't there?”

He looked at me as if I had some secret store of spirit. He didn't realize that my humiliation meant it would now be more difficult to find orders. I told him. He was silent for a moment. Suddenly he burst out laughing. And I was somewhat hurt.

"Do you know, Minke, I see a joke in all this." “There's nothing funny,” I said, annoyed. “There is. Do you know what? There is only one medicine that can cure you. Get married, Minke. You must marry Annelies. Show to the world that you're not afraid of confronting even the eye of Satan. You'll become like the others. They're not asking much, only that you return to their fold—stupid, uncultured people. Marry, Minke, just marry.” “Magda Peters said she thought the court was unjust towards us, even insolent.” “Yes, it was uncivilized. That's the most apt way of describing it. There are some Malay-Dutch papers that have said the same thing. Only not as strongly as that. Those sorts of questions should only be asked in closed court.” “Yes. But there was one Dutch paper that called Mama insolent, said that she created turmoil in the court. But they didn't even print her words.” “Read Kommer's article. His anger was like that of a wounded lion. He's on your side.”

"Tell me. I don't feel like reading." “He wrote that the actions of the judge and prosecutor were insults to all Indo-Europeans born out of concubinage, out of a relationship with a nyai. Their children, if acknowledged by the father, are not considered Natives. If the father doesn't acknowledge them, they become Natives. It means: Natives are the equivalent of children born of a concubine whose father won't acknowledge them. He also condemned the court's exposure of your private affairs. Kommer said that the prosecutor and judge did not have European morals; it was worse than the Native court set up by Wiroguno to try Pronocitro almost two hundred and fifty years ago. Who were they, Minke? I don't know." “I'll tell you another time,” I said, and left.

As soon as I arrived home, I went straight into the office to report on the new disaster. “Mama, what do you think about the idea of Annelies and me marrying?” “Wait a while. What's the hurry?”

I told her about the troubles that had befallen my attempts to obtain orders. Troubles that might also befall Jean Marais. “What can one do, child? Regrets don't achieve anything. The days at court have brought considerable losses to the business, and my position could deteriorate to that of any ordinary nyai, to be humiliated in public, to be sneered at out of the corners of people's eyes. We have to make up those losses first, child. Because without this company doing well, this family will lose its honor. I hope you can understand.”

I observed Nyai's lips as they spoke so calmly. She hoped so much for my understanding. “Minke, I have reflected on the strangeness of life for a long time now. If I can't save this business, my position will fall to that of any ordinary nyai. Annelies would suffer greatly. I will have been a complete loss as a mother. She must be respected more than an ordinary Indo. She must become a Native honored among her own people. Such honor and respect can only be obtained through this business. It's strange, child, but that is what the world demands.”

Annelies herself was working out at the back.

As I sat on the chair in the office, the question of Pures, Indos, and Natives hovered before my mind's eye, clearing away that humiliating self-pity. Everything formed a network like that of a spider's web. And in the middle of the web were the concubines and nyais. They don't catch all the victims that come to them. On the contrary, the net catches up all possible humiliations that they then must swallow. They aren't employers even though they live together in the same room with their masters. They are not included in the same class as the children they themselves have borne. They are not Pure, not Indo, and can even be said not to be Native. They are secret mountains.

And my hand moved fluently across the page. Kommer's ideas were the backbone of my article this time. And the smi set. And my article began to take form.

Ya Allah, even out of such humiliating self-pity can come greater understanding about Your people. It was You too who ordered humanity to form nations and multiply. You have blessed relationships between men and women of different social and economic levels. Why have You not blessed this relationship between people of the same social and economic level and formed of their own free will—only because it has not been carried out according to Your rules? And You have allowed all this to occur, so as to give birth to the Indos, who have so much power over those born with Your blessing.

I turn to You now because those nearest to You will not answer me. You must answer now. I am writing only what I know and what I think I know. Does not all knowledge and learning originate, in the end, from You Yourself?

Ten days after Max Tollenaar's article about the issue of Pures, Indos, and Natives was published, Magda Peters came to Mama's house during school hours. The school director wanted to see me. And I refused to go on the grounds that I no longer had any connection with the school.

Nyai also objected to my going.

Annelies ran away into her room. “Something has happened,” said our guest. “No matter how you feel, you must come. But first of all accept my congratulations. Your last article was a true call to humanity, a powerful incentive to people to think more wisely. And you're still so young. …”

So in the end I went.

All along the journey, Magda Peters twittered about how good it was to have a student of whom she could be so proud. After all my recent experiences I felt soothed by this.

The director received me with a friendly smile. All the students were given the rest of the day off. All the teachers were called together. A kangaroo court? Why was all this being done just for one person? Why was I so important?

The director opened the meeting. “It has now become a European tradition to make judgments on people based only on their achievements. Even on this spot of land called Surabaya that tradition must be maintained. We are not going to ask: What is this man like? No, because that is a private affair. He is valued because of his achievements, because of what he has contributed to his fellow human beings.”

And this beginning soon brought him to my latest article.

"Moving. Touching upon our sense of sanity. More than that: true. It seems that the humanist conscience of Europe, for so long absent among the Indies Natives, has begun to grow within Max Tollenaar, one of our own students ... Minke."

I didn't understand at all what was meant by European humanism. “There have already been seven letters, two from graduates, which protested against our decision to expel Minke. One said this person must be helped, not expelled, even if it means taking some kind of special measure. The assistant resident of B------even felt it necessary to come to Surabaya to see the resident of Surabaya to discuss the matter. The resident had no view on the matter, but the assistant resident offered to be Minke's guardian while he was at H.B.S. He was even going to seek a meeting with the director of the department of teaching and religion if his efforts in Surabaya were not successful. “So, for the first time, one of our decisions is being tested and challenged, though it is not because of those tests and challenges that we must review our decision, but because of what we call our European humanistic conscience, in the name of our ancestors, and European civilization today. “Now, here is Minke, Max Tollenaar, standing before this respected council of teachers. This council will review its earlier decision and decide on some new policy.”

Like a lioness who has lost her child, Magda Peters roared, clawed, attacked in the interest of her lost child. Her freckles stood out more sharply. Her eyes blinked more quickly. Finally, in a low voice, slow and halting, she closed with: “Education and teaching are nothing if not works of humanity. If someone outside school has developed into an individual with a sense of humanity, like Minke, we should be grateful and thank God, even though our part in the forming of this individual is so tiny. Such an outstanding individual can only be born out of extraordinary conditions and circumstances, as is the case with Minke. So I propose: Let us accept him back in school so that he can be given a stronger foundation on which he may build his future.”

The council continued, with myself as the mute accused who did not know why he was being obliged to witness it all, and finally it was decided that I would be accepted back as a student. But with special conditions: I must sit at a special desk set apart from the others, and whether in class or out, I must not talk to fellow pupils, either to ask a question or to answer one. “What is your opinion, Minke, now that you've heard all this?” asked the director, who appeared to want to wash his hands of any past sins. “While ever there is the possibility, I will continue my schooling as I indeed originally desired. If the door is open to me, I will certainly enter. If it's closed to me, I have no objections either if I do not enter. Thank you for all your efforts.”

The meeting closed. With dark faces, except for Magda Peters, all the teachers shook hands to congratulate me. My Dutch language and literature teacher was so satisfied with herself and considered all that had occurred her own victory!

As a closing ceremony the school director handed me unstamped letters from Miriam and Sarah de la Croix.

The school was still. The H.B.S. building, compound, even the gravel all seemed foreign to me as if this were the first time I had seen the school. The teachers' looks could be felt tickling my back. I walked straight to the buggy without turning to look back again. “Go slowly,” I ordered the driver, Marjuki, in Javanese. “Straight to the newspaper office.”

Halfway there the driver said shyly: “Master looks so pale and thin.” “Yes.” “Why don't you take a holiday, seek a cure, Master?” “Yes, later, when I've graduated from school.” “Three more months, Master?” “Yes. Still three more months.” “What's the use of school, master, if you already have enough of everything?” “Yes, what is the use? But if I don't succeed in school, Juki, I'll feel like I won't succeed in anything else later.” “Master has already succeeded in everything.” “Succeeded, how?” “That's what people say, only what people say, Master. Noni . . . wealth, cleverness, you know important people, Dutchmen, not just anybody.” “Is that what people say?” “Yes, Master, and so young, handsome; and in a little while you'll become a bupati.” “Ah, forget it, Juki, forget it.”

At the office of S.N. v/d D., Maarten Nijman offered me a full-time job with his paper if I was expelled from school. The work would be very interesting, he said, even if the wages somewhat low, only twelve and a half guilders. I told him all about the teachers' council meeting and the decision it had just taken. “So Miss Magda Peters defended you with such great spirit? Ah yes, Magda Peters. Are you close to her?” “The wisest of my teachers, sir.” “Hmm. I think it would be wise if you distanced yourself from her somewhat.”

"She is so kind." “Kind? Yes, that's her way of leading people astray, I think.” “Leading people astray?” “You must have heard at one time or other: People can be led astray with kindness too.” “Led astray how?” I asked, amazed. “She is a fanatical radical. She's one of those busy with the 'Indies for the Indies' movement. Have you heard of it?” I shook my head. “They say the Indies should be equal with the Netherlands. She and her kind don't want to know about all the limitations that exist in the Indies. Only disaster will befall those who dare fight against, let alone defy, those limitations. And among all those limitations the most numerous are the unwritten limitations. In the Netherlands, of course, there is total freedom. Here no such thing exists. There is nothing wrong with being a liberal as long as the limitations here are recognized and no one causes any commotions. That's something you should know. It's fortunate that no Natives have joined that movement. Imagine if you had joined it! If a liberal is condemned by the government—no matter what he did wrong—if he's a Pure-Blood, exile from the Indies would be his most severe punishment. If he was an Indo, punishment would be more bitter: dismissal. If a Native, I think that he'd lose his freedom altogether; he'd be locked away without any trial—because there's no law dealing specifically with this sort of thing. Be careful you don't end up the one who gets in trouble. Your country is not the Netherlands, not Europe. If you get in trouble no one among the liberals will be able or willing to help you.” “She's my teacher, Mr. Nijman, my teacher.”

"Look, Mr. Minke, the Netherlands Indies runs on rumors. And it's worth listening to those that come down from above. There have already been rumors about Miss Magda Peters. You've already experienced a lot of trouble lately. Don't add to it, Mr. Minke."

He spoke for a long time about the activities of the liberals, politely, but in a tone that rejected and criticized them. At one stage, he accused them of wanting to overturn the situation in the Indies which, he said, was already consolidated, orderly, secure, tranquil and where its people were protected as each day they went about making a living. “And, Mr. Minke, under the Native kings, your people were never secure, never at peace; there was no legal protection, because indeed there was no law. What hasn't the Netherlands Indies government done for the people? The liberals indeed have strange ideas about the Indies.” “But they're Europeans too,” I said.

On the way home in the buggy, it kept occurring to me how all these conflicts made the situation so complicated. Now we had to add to all this: Pure against Pure. And there was still the position of the Orientals, while Maarten Nijman also wanted humanism, but rejected liberalism. It was turning out that the more one mixed with people the more often different types of issues emerged, ones that I had never dreamed existed, and they were popping up like mushrooms.

Nijman had warned me to be prepared for the present and the future. And, he said, it could be that in the near future Magda Peters might have to leave the Indies. It was not only possible but probable. The rumors were rife and that was taken as an omen. Before such an event actually took place it would be best if I distanced myself from Magda Peters, he said. “Magda Peters may only be ordered to leave the Indies, but you could find yourself in a place that you would never be able to leave.”

Nijman didn't want to explain the limitations he talked about. Good. I would ask whoever was prepared to answer. Perhaps his words contained some truth, if there were such limitations, and they were real.

At the Telinga's house there was a letter from Mother and, as was usual, it was written in Javanese language and script.

Gus, everybody has felt both pain and sympathy as they followed your affairs in the papers. You are my manly son. That is all that supports me. As for your own affairs, you yourself must resolve them all. Don't forget what your Mother has said before: Don't run! Resolve your affairs well. You remember? If you ever run away from something, your schooling and your education will have been in vain, because my son would then be only a criminal. You are fond of the daughter of this Nyai On-tosoroh? That's up to you. I only say: Don't run from your own problems, because to resolve them is your right as a man. Seize the beautiful flowers, because they are there for him who is manly. And don't become a criminal in affairs of love either—one who conquers a woman With the jingle of coins, the sparkle of wealth and rank. Such a man is also a criminal, while the woman is a prostitute.

I hear too from those who read the Dutch papers that you've become a man of letters. Oh, Gus, why do you compose in a language that your mother cannot understand? Write the story of your love in the poetry of your ancestors so that your mother and the whole country may sing them.

Don't worry about your father, he has a poem of his own.

Ah, beloved Mother. How great a love from me do you deserve! You have never punished me, never passed judgment on this son of yours. Since I was little you have never even pinched me. Now you find no error in my relationship with Annelies. You seek of me that I write in Javanese, a language that you can pronounce with your own tongue. How I have disappointed you, Mother, not being able to write Javanese poems. The rhythm of my life writhes so wildly it could never be forced into the poetry of my ancestors.

My communion with Mother was destroyed by Mrs. Telinga with her usual nagging: “What about this, Young Master, there may be no shopping done tomorrow,” and that meant that I'd have to produce at least one talen from my pocket.

At Jean Marais's house I found May asleep on a bed, now equipped with a new mattress but still no sheets. Jean himself was daydreaming. The workshop at the back of the house was rather quiet. “Jean, tomorrow you can begin painting Mama. It's best if you paint while she's doing her correspondence in the office. I'm back at school beginning tomorrow. And May can stay at Wono-kromo while you're painting, Jean.” “I'll come, Minke.” His voice still sounded lonely. “I don't really feel like painting now.” “It was you that wanted to do it before.” “She's so strong, Minke. Her personality is so strong. I admire her, no more so than during the court case. She's such a determined person, with such vision. I could drown before her.” What was he trying to say: that he had fallen in love with Mama? Only that he had no way of communicating it?

The Frenchman didn't say anything more. “Have you ever suffered because of love, Jean.”

He raised his head and smiled. He asked in return: “Have you ever heard the life story of the great French painter Toulouse-Lautrec? His immortal paintings now hang on the walls of the Louvre?" “Of course not.” “He achieved everything in life.” “Why, Jean.”

He smiled mysteriously and wouldn't say.

Still yawning, May climbed up into my lap. “Have a bath, May. Let's go to Wonokromo. Tomorrow you can come with me on the way to school.”

"By buggy from Wonokromo?" she asked, her eyes gazing at her father.

Jean Marais nodded in confirmation. “You too, Jean. No need to wait for tomorrow. Let's go now.”

The three of us departed. The buggy was very crammed.

And in the evening, with Jean Marais as a witness, it was decided: Annelies and I were to marry as soon as I passed the H.B.S. exams.

The world and my heart greeted each other in peace.

The graduation party was also a party within a party.

For three months I studied and studied and that's all I did. I didn't do any work for Jean. Studied and studied. And in the meantime my life had been restored to something like it was earlier.

I would be allowed to socialize once again with the other students at the graduation ceremony. I would be a real part of the student body again—even though only briefly. We would all soon be embarking on our separate journeys into that unlimited life before us.

The parents and guardians sat in rows, all of them: Pures, Indos, several Chinese, and not a single Native.

Mama refused to attend, so I came with Annelies. And it was the first time she had left the house to attend a party. She wore her favorite black velvet dress with a three-stringed pearl necklace, a brilliant bejewelled medallion, and bracelets. And there could be no doubt: She now rivaled the Queen in both natural beauty and her adorned appearance.

Like all the other students who were to receive their diplomas, I wore white clothes like the civil servants, except without the yellow buttons with the letter W for Wilhelmina on them.

The two of us entered the hall, where we were greeted by Magda Peters dressed in her formal clothes. She greeted Annelies with great enthusiasm. “Prima donna! You are the queen of the party!”

With all eyes on her, Annelies did not refuse to be escorted to sit amongst the audience. Both girls and boys turned around to see my queen. Now they knew: The world had become my kingdom, and I had seized it without a duel. I sought out Robert Suurhof so he would have no chance to hide his face. Instead it was Jan Dapperste who came into view, waving his hand. I replied with a nod.

Sitting in the chair there, I remembered Mother. How glorious it would have been if she could have witnessed her son accepting his H.B.S. diploma. That noble woman was not present. And I felt an emptiness in the merriment and the grandness of the occasion.

The hubbub turned to silence. “Wilhelmus” boomed out as everyone joined in singing under the witness of the Tricolors: flags and ribbons. Then the director spoke briefly. He congratulated those who had graduated and wished them well as they set off on their brilliant careers, and he prayed for the greatest success for everyone. To those who would continue their studies in the Netherlands at university, he wished them happy sailing and prayed that they would become good scholars, of use to the Netherlands and the Indies and the World.

The European inspector of teaching did not speak.

Then the program moved on to calling up those who had passed the 1899 state exams. The teachers were standing in a row behind the director.

Stillness and tension. “At the close of this school year, approaching the close of the nineteenth century, of the forty-five pupils who sat for the state exams in the Indies, the one who came first was from H.B.S. Batavia. Eleven failed and have been asked to repeat. The graduate with the second best score is from Surabaya, which means he was first in Surabaya."

Everyone cheered loyally.

I guessed that each student's heart was palpitating as he imagined himself as number two in all the Indies and number one in Surabaya. Even I had dreamed of it. “Graduating second in all of the Indies, first in Surabaya, the student's name is … Min-ke.”

I shook. I had no idea. In fact no one ever imagined that a Native could beat Europeans. Such an idea was taboo in the Indies. “Minke!” called the director.

I still couldn't stand. My fellow students on each side of me forced themselves to help me get up. “Minke!” called out Magda Peters, waving.

And so I stood up; my legs were still unsteady. Everyone would no doubt witness this pathetic condition I was in. There was no more applause supporting me, only because the person called up was a Native. Even the teachers didn't applaud. Then came some weak clapping. It was easy to guess who: Miss Magda Peters. Perhaps even Annelies didn't clap. She had never participated in this type of gathering before. She was probably sitting there completely dumbfounded—that child who'd never mixed socially—like the child of a mountain.

I went up on the stage and received the diploma and the congratulations. My hand shook visibly. “Steady, Minke,” the director whispered.

Slowly I walked back to my seat, accompanied by the weak clapping of the teachers, and then that of a few students, and then of some of the audience.

Number five after me was Robert Suurhof. Last was Jan Dapperste. When Jan returned to his seat, there appeared from amongst the audience Preacher Dapperste, a Pure, who greeted Jan with an intimate embrace. The preacher's wife too. If Annelies had understood what this was all about, she would have done likewise. She didn't.

The party began. First and second class were to put on a Bible play; it was called David and Bathsheba, and was produced by one of the teachers.

Audience and students sat together now. Annelies was beside me.

Before the play began, the director came up to me and gave me a telegram from B-----: Congratulations on passing the state exam second in the Indies, from Miriam, Sarah, and Herbert de la Croix. It seemed that they knew my results before me, the person it affected. The director shook hands with Annelies and was very friendly. Even so I was tense and anxious, afraid that he still might let fly some insult, openly or not. But no, he didn't insult her. It seemed he greeted her sincerely. “Would sir accept our invitation to you, the other teachers, and the students to attend our wedding party next Wednesday? At seven in the evening?” “So fast?” Once again he shook hands with us.

Annelies responded to his congratulations coldly. And if I recalled Dr. Martinet's explanation, I could understand why.

He shook me vigorously by the hand and then clapped merrily so that people looked around at us. “May I announce it in a moment?” “Thank you, sir, of course, as an official spoken invitation.” “Why no printed invitations?” “Well, sir, after our past experiences …”

Magda Peters, who sat listening, also shook hands with us, without comment. I don't know what she was thinking. At the very least her eyes weren't blinking fast.

The director went again. It was announced that scene one was about to begin. Slowly the curtain rose. Spread out before us was a stony landscape where later (perhaps) Bathsheba would bathe and where David would glimpse her body. But Bathsheba still didn't appear even though the curtain was fully raised. Nor the Prophet David. People began to stretch their necks forward, looking for the beautiful Bathsheba. Instead, out of the stony landscape there appeared the director, smiling and taking off his bow tie.

The whole gathering burst into hearty laughter. The director couldn't help but burst into a big grin also. So this unrobed, unturbanned David (but one who did wear a bow tie) apologized, but he said there was something he had to do. It would diminish his announcement's significance if it was done after the performance. Then he announced our invitation. “Invitees besides teachers, students, and graduates? There aren't any.”

There was scattered laughter. “On behalf of all those who may not be able to attend, perhaps because they'll be returning quickly to their own regions or because they already have plans, as director of the Surabaya H.B.S. I wish to congratulate the bride-and groom-to-be and pray that they will live happily forever. Thank you.”

And he descended from the stage passing Bathsheba, who was sneaking a look from behind the curtain.

Our wedding party, which we had planned to be a simple affair, turned into something much grander as a result of the sudden invitation announced at the graduation. Nyai approved. She was very happy to hear Annelies's report of how it was announced. “This party will also celebrate your victory in the examination, child. Despite facing so many trials, you still passed brilliantly. You overcame all trials.”

A few days before the ceremony, Mother arrived. She was the only representative of my family. Nyai greeted her joyfully, as if they were old friends. Mother quickly came to love Annelies, her future daughter-in-law. It was as if she could not bear to be far from her and never grew tired of staring in admiration at her beauty. “Ya, Sis,” she said to Nyai, the future mother-in-law of her son, “a child so beautiful, like Nawangwulan. Perhaps even more beautiful than Banowati. Ya Allah, Sis, I never guessed, I never thought that Sis would take my son as your son-in-law. Neither in this world or the next will I ever forget it, Sis.” “Yes, Sis they love each other. Only I ask your forgiveness because my child has no race, stems from a . . .” “Ah, Sis, if a girl is as beautiful as this, she already has everything.”

In the evening Mother whispered to me: “Gus, you're truly fortunate to have obtained a wife so beautiful. In your ancestors' time a woman as beautiful as that would spark a great war.” “Does Mother think I did not go to war to win her?” “Ah, yes, y6s ... you're right, Gus, and of course your victory was glorious.”

We were married according to Islam. Darsam acted as witness and as guardian to Annelies as stipulated in Islamic Law. It took place at exactly nine o'clock in the morning. As was the custom, and with feelings of gratitude, we both knelt and made obeisance to Mother and Mama.

Tears poured forth from both of them as they accepted our obeisance and they blessed us with halting words. And Annelies cried also. Perhaps she felt there was something missing because there was no father present to share in the happiness of the day. Perhaps.

Mother and Mama put their arms around each other's shoulders, gazed at each other with tear-filled eyes, and embraced. To be moved to tears that way is humanity's purest emotion. Such emotion also means pain, hurt in one's psyche, because people come face to face with their own birth as humans, naked and bare of all pretension and civilization.

A small feast followed; then afterwards the real party.

For the inhabitants of all the company villages, our marriage meant a big feast. The paddy-drying area was turned into a big covered pavilion. Everyone was given a holiday with full pay. The herdsmen who couldn't leave their work received triple pay. Five young calves were slaughtered. Three hundred chickens met their end. Two thousand and twenty-five eggs. The whole of the day's milk production was surrendered to the kitchen. Every company carriage, whether being used or not, was decorated with multicolored paper.

Never had the inhabitants of Wonokromo witnessed so big a wedding party.

Annelies once told me: Mama will give me anything I ask for at this wedding party. And she said also: She wants to see as many people as possible around her child sharing in the joy. So she would never regret it all her life.

Neither Annelies nor Mama wanted any dowry. “What more do we wish for?” said Mama. Annelies had already got everything from her future husband. If there had to be a dowry, said Annelies, it is something I haven't yet got from him: his promise of faithfulness while ever I live. And I gave it to her during the marriage ceremony.

At five in the afternoon, there was a knock on my door. Jan Dapperste entered. He was well dressed in an old-fashioned style. “Forgive me, Minke, if I've come too early. I've come early on purpose so I can help.” He then sat down as if he hadn't been acquainted with a single chair for the last fifteen years.

In a complaining tone, he continued, "You're indeed a child of May, you've got everything you've ever wanted. You succeed in everything you do. A few more years and you will be a bupati." “You're talking some ill-starred child lamenting his fate.” “You're not wrong. I've run away from Papa and Mama. After the ship set sail for Europe, I jumped overboard and swam ashore. An adopted child who doesn't know how well off he is . . .” “I've heard you curse yourself like that at least three times now.” “I'm sorry, especially on this, such a happy day for you. It's not proper. I'm sorry. Help me, Minke. I don't want to leave Java. I'm not Dutch, not Indo.” “I've heard that often.” “Ya. And there's more than that: I've never felt happy with the name Dapperste.”

The Preacher Dapperste's family had no children. They had taken care of Jan since he was small, baptized him, and given him their family name, Dapperste. Since then he's been called Jan Dapperste. He didn't know what his name was before all that. The preacher had tried to adopt him through the courts. He never succeeded because Dutch law didn't recognize adoption. So his name was something recognized in the community, but not by the law. “Since I was small I have always been a coward. You know that too. The name Dapperste—the courageous one—has always tormented me.”

Yes, all our fellow school students knew. Some even changed Dapperste to Lafste—Jan de Lafste—the coward. And if his story was true, then for no other reason than to free himself of that name he had changed into a brave person indeed: diving into the sea and running away from his parents. I still didn't really believe him. “So who are you living with now?” I asked. “Here and there … I want to get a job here in Surabaya with my H.B.S. diploma. The only problem, Minke, is that the name Dapperste is on that diploma too. Must I go through life carrying that name to the very end?” “You can change your name.” “Yes, I know. I've spent the last year seeking explanations of how to go about it.”

"And?" “You put forward a letter to the resident, who sends it on to the governor-general.”

"Why haven't you done it then?"

He gazed at me with dull eyes, as if he weren't an H.B.S. graduate. He made a noise with his mouth and looked away. “You can't write a letter? Come qn, you can use other examples of official letters?” “It's the duty-stamp, Minke; it's too expensive to get free of this name. Just the application alone costs one and a half guilders. For the letter of determination that I need there is another one-and-a,-half-guilder stamp. I've thought and thought …” “And why haven't you done it yet?” “Come on, Minke, don't tell me you don't understand. Where would I get three guilders? And then there are still the postage stamps.” “Why didn't you just say you didn't know where you could get the money? Wouldn't have that been easier?” “I'm sorry. Forgive me, Minke, it's so embarrassing speaking to you like this on this day of happiness for you.” “You don't regret my happiness.” “No, of course not. I thank God too with all sincerity and honesty.” “Then share too in my happiness.” “That's why I have come.” “Listen, Jan, Mama is going to expand the business. She's going to move into spices. You can try working there. You'd like that, yes? While waiting for the determination about your name to be issued?” “Thank you, Minke. You've always been good and generous. It's a pity the governor-general's letter has to be preceded by an application—I haven't even made it out yet.” “The new company is being headed by an Indo, van Door-nenbosch. I'll introduce you to him later. I'll look after everything myself.”

He took my hand. His head was bowed down. He didn't speak. “Don't just be silent. Talk with me while there's still some time.” “Thank you, Minke. That's not all. You yourself can guess my situation. My accommodation, Minke, and the cost of traveling around Surabaya?"

Mother entered my room to prepare my adornment. That noble woman had struggled hard to make sure she would get this job. No one else would adorn her child, of whom she was so proud, now that he was to be a groom. In her right hand she carried a paper bag and in her left, a basket of flowers, some untied and some in bunches.

On seeing Jan Dapperste, who looked at her in a demeaning way, she hesitated. “This is my Mother, Jan,” I said.

Only then did my friend force a smile and bow in respect. “Mother doesn't speak Dutch,” I reminded him.

And Jan Dapperste began to speak in fluent High Javanese. I was quite dumbfounded to witness it. And I explained to Mother that he was a fellow graduate, the son of a preacher. “The former picked-up son of a preacher,” he corrected me. “Child, Mother wishes to adorn her son now. Excuse us.”

"Allow me to help, Mother." “A thousand thanks, child. But no. This is the last job his mother will do for her child. I must do it myself. Do you think you could move to another place?”

Jan looked at me, his eyes shouting out for help. I knew he was tired. And more than that: hungry. I knew his behavior by heart. I took a piece of paper and wrote an order to Darsam to look after Jan.

I could now light the gas lamp in my room, a sign that it was exactly six o'clock. The gas mains, which Darsam himself looked after, and which were located in a small stone house behind the main building, were now opened. The room lit up.

Mother scrubbed my face, neck, chest, andjrms with a liquid whose name I didn't know. “In the bygone ages,” Mother began, just as she had when I was still small, “countries would wage all-out wars to win a maiden like my daughter-in-law, mbedah praja, mboyong putri was our ancestors proverb: Victory over kingdoms, possession of its princesses. Today things are more secure. It's not like it was when I was little, let alone when your grandfather was little. Even though the Dutch are so very powerful they have never stolen people's wives or daughters like the kings who ruled our ancestors. Ah, child, had you lived in those days you would have been constantly called to the battlefield to be able to keep possession of your wife, that angel. Maybe she's even more beautiful than that. Her cheeks, her lips, her forehead, her nose, even her ears—all are as if formed in wax, shaped according to all men's dreams. How proud I am to have her as my daughter-in-law, G.us. You have made me so happy.” “She, Mother, this daughter-in-law of Mother's, there's not enough Java in her.” “You are happy with her, aren't you? Be happy in the beginning, Gus, but then be ever vigilant—a child as beautiful as that . . . the gods, will not be still.”

Mother kept on looking to my body, and keep on talking too, and talking. “You are lucky you don't have to be always fighting like your ancestors.” “Mother.” “Ah, if only I could take her to B----, Gus, everyone would come out of their houses to greet her. What about it? Will you both later come to B.....or not?" “No, Mother.” “Ya, ya, I understand, Gus. So your mother must be the one to come here to see you, and my daughter-in-law, and my grandchildren.” “It would be Father who would object, Mother.” “Sst. Silent, you. So you've forbidden your wife to have her teeth filed? Don't her sharp teeth disgust you?” “Let my wife's teeth remain as they were given to her, Mother.” “Like Dutch teeth, like the unfiled teeth of an ogre.”

"Why are you scrubbing me like this, as if I've never bathed?" "Hush! On this your wedding day I want to see you look like the child of the gods. So neither you nor I will look back on this day with any disappointment." “What's the use of being the child of the gods?”

"Hush! It is not for yourself that you must be like the child of the gods. Today, all your ancestors will come to witness your wedding and give their blessings. I would never miss an opportunity to see one of my descendants. Imagine how I'd feel to see my son ascend the wedding throne looking like anything but a Javanese knight? And what will I say when I'm dead and see my grandchildren fail to be Javanese only because their parents did not look to things properly?"

"Do the ancestors of the Dutch also attend the wedding of their descendants?"

"Hush! Why-are you concerned with the Dutch? You're still not Javanese enough yet. You don't obey your own ancestors enough. People say you've become a man of letters, but where are your poems that I can sing at night when I miss you?"

"I cannot write in Javanese, Mother."

"An, if you were Javanese, you would be able to write in Javanese. You write in Dutch, Gus, because you no longer want to be Javanese. You write for Dutch people. Why do you honor them so greatly? They drink and eat from the Javanese earth. You do not eat and drink from the Dutch earth. Why, why do you honor them so greatly?"

"Yes, Mother."

"What are you yessing? Your ancestors, the kings of Java, all wrote in Javanese. Are you perhaps ashamed of being Javanese? Ashamed that you're not Dutch?"

It would have been stupid to answer Mother's words, spoken so gently but containing an unanswerable harshness. Yes, everybody makes demands on me. Now Mother too. Mother knew and I knew I would not answer. She was speaking more to her ancestors, pleading that they forgive me, her favorite child. The ancestors must not be furious at me. Ah, Mother, my beloved Mother, a mother who has never tried to force her will upon me, has never hurt me, not even with only a little pinch, no, not with words, not with her fingers.

"Put on this batik kain. Now. Mother made this batik for you herself, and for this occasion. Four years I have stored it in a special box; every week I sprinkled it with jasmine flowers, Gus. After I heard people's stories about the newspaper reports of the trial, I sacralized the kain, Gus. One for you, and one for my daughter-in-law. Inspect your Mother's batik work and smell the aroma of the years and years of jasmine."

So I inspected it and I smelled it.

"Beautiful, Mother, wonderful. So sweet-smelling. And that delicious aroma has been absorbed right down into the threads."

"Aah, what do you know about batik," and deliberately she didn't look at me, knowing that I'd be grimacing from the pain. "I dyed it red and blue with my own hands, Gus. And the dyes I made myself also. Smell its aroma again, the perfume of the dye is still there," and the kain was pushed under my nose.

"Delicious, Mother."

"Ah, you! I'm happy, Gus, to see you so clever-at pretending, so as to please the heart of this old woman," and once again she didn't look at me as I grimaced with the pain. "I could tell that my future daughter-in-law and her mother would not be able to make batik. So it had to be me who carried out this task. When I was a child, Gus, a woman who couldn't make batik was considered a poor woman indeed."

"Mother's batik is so fine. It must have taken you at least a month to finish?"

"Two months, two batiks. Specially made to be worn on this day. If you both throw them out after today, that is up to you."

"I will save them until I die, Mother."

"How clever you've become in pleasing me. Those are the words of a devoted son. These chains of flowers have also been made by your mother. This keris, this curved ceremonial sword, was left to you by your grandfather. It is hundreds of years old, from before the time of Mataram, from before Pajang. From the time of Majapahit, Gus."

"From where does Mother know this?"

"Hush! Don't be silly, Gus. Don't you remember hearing the family tree explained in your grandfather's house? You never listened to him. That is your fault. Maybe you only value what the Dutch say. This keris has been used by all your ancestors except your father. This keris was prepared for you, Gus. Ah, how must I speak to you? Truly, Mother no longer knows, Gus. Excuse this old woman who knows nothing, Gus."

"Mother!"

"There is no Dutchman who can make a keris, Gus. None are or ever will be able to make one. Open it and you'll see the thumbprints of the craftsman sage who made it."

At that time I was putting on my batik kain, so I said:

"Sorry, Mother, could Mother pull the keris out of its scabbard for me so I can see it?"

"Hush! You're indeed no longer of Java. Do you equate this with a kitchen knife?"

When I saw teardrops on her face I quickly tied up my kain and knelt down before her:

"Forgive me, Mother, it was not my intent to hurt Mother. Forgive me, Mother, a thousand pardons, Mother."

Mother turned away and wiped away the tears from her face.

"Don't go. too far, Gus, don't go too far with your non-Javaneseness. Since when has a woman been allowed to pull out a keris from its scabbard? A keris is only for a man. That which is for a woman is not called a keris. Don't be so disrespectful. You too could not make the likes of this. Respect those who can do more than you. Later you can look in the mirror. When you have slipped the keris onto your waist, you will change. You will look more like your ancestors. You will be closer to your origins."

And mother talked and talked. And finally my adornment was finished.

"Sit down there on the floor. Bow down your head," and I knew what would follow on such an occasion as this: the advice before the marriage ceremony. It could be no other way. The advice was beginning. "You are a descendant of the knights of Java ... the founders and destroyers of kingdoms. . . You yourself have the blood of a knight. You are a knight. What are the attributes of a knight of Java?"

"I don't know, Mother."

"Hush! You who believe only in everything that is Dutch. The five attributes of the Javanese knight are: house, woman, horse, bird, and keris. Can you remember that?"

"Of course I can, Mother."

"Do you know the meanings of the words?"

"Yes, Mother."

"And do you know what they symbolize?"

"No, Mother."

"Child who doesn't know his own origins, you! Listen, and pass it on to your children one day."

"Yes, Mother."

"First a house, Gus. Without a house a person can never be a knight. He can only be a tramp. A house, Gus, is where a knight departs from, and the place to which he returns. A house is not just an address, Gus, it is a place trusted by he who lives there. Are you bored?"

"I'm listening."

She pulled my ear:

"You have never listened to your parents."

"I'm listening, Mother, truly."

"Secondly, a woman, Gus—without a woman, a knight goes against his nature as a man. Woman is the symbol of life, and the bringer of life, of fertility, prosperity, of well-being. She is not just a wife to a husband. Woman is the center around which circles and from which comes the giving of life, and life itself. This is how you should look upon this old mother of yours, and what should guide you in bringing up your daughters."

"Yes, Mother."

"The Dutch know none of this, Gus. But you must know, because you're Javanese."

"Yes, Mother, they know none of this."

"Third, Gus, a horse. The horse will carry you on your journeys: after learning, knowledge, ability, skills, expertise, and finally—advancement. Without a horse, your strides will not be long, your vision will be short."

I nodded in agreement, understanding too that this was wisdom that had been born out of centuries of experience. Only I didn't really know for sure whose wisdom it was, the ancestors' or Mother's own.

"The fourth, the bird, is a symbol of beauty, of distraction, of everything that has no connection with simple physical survival, of only the satisfaction of one's soul. Without this, people are only lumps of soulless stone. And the fifth, the keris, Gus, the keris is the symbol of vigilance, of preparedness, of courage, the weapon with which to defend the other four. Without the keris, the others will vanish. They will be vulnerable to any attack. You, H.B.S. graduate, your teachers have never taught you any of this? Those Dutchmen? Now you know all that a knight need know. Never be without even one of these things. Do not scoff at the knightly attributes. Each of them is a sign of yourself. You must listen to your ancestors. If you can't obey in the other things, then at least complete the attainment of these five. You hear, Gus?"

"Yes, Mother." your ancestors, that they may guard you from the oppression, slander, and malice of others. " I remained seated on the floor, head bowed.

"Not like that. Sit properly, cross-legged. Your arms relaxed and placed on your lap. Be a good Javanese, even if only for a moment and just this once. Bow down your head more deeply, Gus."

I had carried out all her orders and her wishes. And indeed I did seek forgiveness from those unknown ancestors of mine, ancestors whom I could not even imagine. Instead, just for a moment, Fatso flitted through my mind.

Mother knelt before me, placing a necklace of jasmine flowers around my neck. She was sobbing. Then she placed a small chain of flowers in each of my hands. With her hands, and without speaking, she moved each of my fingers into gripping the chains. She kissed my forehead under the curved edge of my batik blangkon, the sign of Javanese nobility. And her sobbing became worse. I felt her tears drop onto my cheeks. And all of a sudden I too began to cry.

And those images of my ancestors, which had not yet had the chance to even take on faces, faded away, replaced by churning emotions inside my breast, squeezing the tears out in an ever more abundantly flowing stream.

"Bless this child, the child of your blood, my ancestors, your most-favored child. Protect him from disasters, from oppression, slander, and malice, because he is my beloved child. I gave birth to him in suffering, almost dying..."

"Mother!" I flung my body to the ground and embraced her knees. ". . . I have lived until today only so that I may witness this event. This is the child of my own blood. Bring him closer to greatness and triumph."

I felt Mother's hands on my back. And Mother ceased her sobbing. She corrected the way I was sitting, the position of the jasmine necklace and the chains of flowers gripped in my hands. With the corner of her kabaya she wiped away my tears. She put right the way I held up my chin, it being too high.

"Meditate, Gus, meditate by yourself, without my help."

Guests started to arrive and fill up the front room, inside living room, and the pavilion set up outside. My own heart was still occupied with the deep impressions left by Mother and the ceremony she had carried out on the eve of my ascent to the wedding throne. I'd never seen a bridegroom undergo such a ceremony. It was probably Mother's own improvisation. Maybe it was a special ceremony for a child who was a renegade in the eyes of his family, but not in the eyes of his mother.

Kommer, who received a special invitation, arrived five minutes before seven o'clock. He strode confidently up to me, put out his hand, and shook mine warmly, then he greeted Annelies, returned to me, and said:

"With this marriage, Mr. Minke, the dirty mouths outside will be silenced. But not only that. You have finished what you started. And the future? We will continue working together, yes?"

"Of course, Mr. Kommer, gladly. We can be good allies. And thank you for your congratulations."

He was a very friendly Indo. Only the shape of his head and the pointedness of his nose manifested his European heritage. The rest was Native, including perhaps his psyche. He was much older than I, maybe ten or fifteen years older. His movements were agile. And from his face you could tell he was not used to staying inside his house.

Jean Marais and May, Telinga and his wife arrived in a hired cart. Magda Peters and my other school friends arrived in the same manner. Mr. Maarten Nijman and his wife came in their own carriage.

The school director and the other teachers did not come. They sent a letter of congratulations with Magda Peters.

One minute before seven o'clock a telegram arrived from Miriam, Sarah, and Herbert de la Croix. And once again I was amazed: How did they know about the marriage?

As I predicted, Robert Suurhof was nowhere to be seen. His absence became the subject of lively conversations amongst my H.B.S. friends.

And Jan Dapperste, always tired and still fed up with his name, was busy running around like a propeller, carrying out his duties as a volunteer waiter.

There were quite a few of my own friends. There was no other Native except for Jan Dapperste.

Mama's customers flocked in. The recent trial, where Mama emerged as the star of the court had, perhaps, turned out to be art attractive and effective advertisement for the business.

In his usual smooth manner Dr. Martinet carried out the duties of master of ceremonies. At eight o'clock sharp he began very fluently to deliver his speech. He started off by telling of the love between Annelies and me and the great storm with which we had had to contend. Never had he heard of such a storm in any tale of love between two people—a tale well worth being made into a book. (And it was indeed because of that speech that I put together my experiences so that they became this document. ...)

"This tale is unique," he continued his speech. "It could never be repeated."

One moment that fluent doctor had all his listeners mesmerized into silence, then the next moment he had them all laughing. He emphasized everything important with a movement of his hands. It was a pity he didn't speak Malay—many people couldn't understand Dutch.

Finished with the beautiful telling of the tale of our love, he turned to another and unexpected topic:

"Let us now all look at the portrait hanging above the throne upon which sit the happy newlyweds."

With no less beautiful a movement of his hands, he guided the eyes of all those present to Mama's portrait up above the two of us.

"That painting," he explained, "is a portrait of a Native woman who indeed is extraordinary for her times. Nyai Ontoso-roh, a very clever woman, mother of the bride and mother-in-law of Mr. Minke. She is brilliant individual. She is a ship's captain who will never allow her ship to be damaged, let alone sunk. It is through her captaincy alone that this happy occasion is able to take place, the uniting of the gloriousness of a woman with the great skill and ability of a young author. Through this captaincy, two pairs of hands will now proceed forth into each other's clasp for the rest of their lives, as this couple begins what will surely be an equally glorious life in the future.

"And you all know who painted this wonderful portrait hanging here? A painter of great talent! Not just any painter. If we examine the painting carefully we can see that the painter truly understands his subject's spirit. He has brought out the greatness in her. I think that these words of mine are not mistaken. Is it not so, Mr. Jean Marais? Yes, the painter hails from France, a country with a great artistic tradition. Mr. Marais, please stand up."

I saw Telinga help Jean Marais stand up, and everyone started cheering wildly. The Frenchman went red with embarrassment and quickly sat down again.

The doctor's short speech greatly soothed us. And it seemed as if he was launching a propaganda campaign for Mama, and Jean Marais as well.

From where I was sitting, I could also see Darsam, dressed all in black, standing away in the distance. His mustache was lush and shining, and curled up at the ends. His eyes were wandering about everywhere. I couldn't see any machete. But I was sure that there were daggers slipped down under his shirt.

Nyai Ontosoroh, my mother-in-law, sat behind the screen at the back of the wedding throne and never stopped crying. Mother stood beside her daughter-in-law and, without once stopping, kept Annelies cool with a peacock-feather fan.

Behind the screen also, Mrs. Telinga was busy looking after the other women guests.

The pile of presents under our feet grew higher and higher. Who knew from where they all came? Wreaths of flowers were lined up in rows on either side of us. As time went on the rows grew longer.

At nine o'clock the start of the party for the village people could be heard as the East Javanese gamelan bronze orchestra rang out: tayub dance! Every now and then cheering and shouting could be heard. Darsam's men had been ordered to keep watch to make sure no rioting or fighting broke out. And there was palm wine, and it flowed all night.

At nine-thirty people began to make their way home. Dr. Martinet had to leave first because of a call from a patient. About six seconds later, a youth arrived, dressed all in black. His hair shone. A fancy handkerchief adorned his top pocket. A gold watch-chain indicated the presence of a gold watch in his pocket. He strode confidently, dashingly, among all the people preparing to leave. He made his way straight to where the two of us were seated. There could be no mistake: It was Robert Suurhof.

With great politeness, he held out his hand to me and offered his congratulations. Then to Annelies:

"Forgive me for being somewhat late, Mrs. Minke." He bowed down even more politely.

"We're happy you were able to come, Rob," I said.

"Forgive all the things that have happened in the past, Minke," he said, without relaxing his politeness, as if he were a new acquaintance. "Allow me to present a little something to your wife, in celebration of this occasion."

Without waiting for an answer, he took out a gold ring with a very, very big diamond. He took my wife's hand and placed the ring on her finger. He twisted the ring around so the diamond was hidden in her palm. Then he bowed down to her hand, just like in the novels about the Middle Ages. As far as I was concerned he kissed her hand for far too long. Then he faced me.

"I will not go back on a promise, Minke; I admire and respect you greatly, much more than I have ever done before," and he handed me a little box tied in pink ribbon. "This is a little present from me on your wedding day. May you both live happily forever, "Thank you, Rob, for your kindness and concern."

"I would also like to take this opportunity to take my leave of you. I'm sailing for Europe to study law."

"Safe sailing, happy studying, and success to you."

He walked away in that confident, dashing manner of his and joined the others about to depart for home.

Magda Peters, glassy-eyed, came to excuse herself. She held my hands tightly.

"I would have liked very much to follow your development over the next three years. No matter. If you ever come to Europe — don't forget my address." She walked quickly away from us.

Mr. Telinga and wife, Jean Marais and child did not go home. They stayed the night. Jan Dapperste also. Jan was busy carting the presents to the newlyweds' room upstairs and making a list of the names and addresses of all those who gave something.

Amongst the pile of presents were some things from Miriam, Sarah, and Herbert de la Croix. No one knew who had brought them. There was a little note slipped between them, in Miriam's writing, saying:

Were you embarrassed to invite us? Or perhaps we wouldn't have fitted in properly, my friend? We wanted to stand on either side of that angel so famed for her beauty. What can be done? All we can do now is offer out congratulations, and don't forget to kpep up our correspondence. Best wishes, and our regards and all our compliments to your wife.

In Sarah's parcel there was a special letter:

I am leaving for Europe, Minke. I'm fortunate to be able to pass on my congratulations on your wedding day. Adieu! Until we meet again in Europe!

Miss Magda Peters's present included several books and a brochure without the name of the author or of the publisher, and without any year of publication either. Written inside the brochure were the following words:

For a newlywed like you, Minke, the most appropriate things to give are special books not everyone can own, and I have chosen those you will like best. By the time you read this note, I will have already arrived home, and will be too busy to reflect on the happiness of a favorite pupil. May you obtain happiness as you build yourselves a brilliant life together. If at some time you happen to think of your unworthy but sincere teacher, Minke, remember: There has been in this world someone proud to have had a student who has followed in the footsteps of the great humanist Multatuli. But now, Minke, some of the students' parents have succeeded in having me sacked from my teaching job. I have been advised to leave the Indies before I'm actually expelled. I'm leaving tomorrow on an English ship. Good-bye.

"Read this yourself, Jan," I said to Dapperste. "Our teacher." "What is it, Mas?"

"The rumors have turned out to be true. The government is getting rid of Magda Peters, though in an indirect way. It moves me greatly, Ann. Even facing such great troubles, she still made time to come and see us!"

"Expelled from the Indies?" Jan whispered after reading the note.

"Yes, and you don't want to leave Java. Will you do something for us, Jan?"

"Of course, Mas, gladly."

"Will you see Miss Magda Peters off at the harbor, on behalf of both of us, and Mama and you yourself? And for Mother too? Such a kind person should not be allowed to leave without anyone to see her off; it must not happen."

One small, long parcel turned out to contain a beautiful pen with a gold nib. There was a card on which someone had drawn his own picture. Then he had printed the following words:

Greetings and best wishes to the doves Minke and An- nelies Mellema, with the hope that you will forgive and forget a person you do not know except by the name:

Fato.

The present fell to the floor.

"Mas!" exclaimed Annelies.

Jan Dapperste picked it up.

"This one is for you, Jan," I said. I put the card into my pocket. I still had to decide whether I would destroy it or keep it for the trial that might resume later.

It was after one o'clock. Jan Dapperste had finished his work. After saying good night, the finale to his evening, he left the room.

I went up to Annelies.

"Now you are my wife, Ann."

"And you are my husband, Mas."

There was a knock on the door. I jumped up and opened it. Mama entered. Her eyes were swollen, as she had had her fill of shedding tears. She approached us and couldn't speak. We understood her intent: to pass on her final words of advice.

"Mama, the two of us would like to thank you for everything that you have bestowed upon us so freely, everything that you have done for us, felt for us, and thought about for us. We will always remember and never forget all this."

She nodded, and went out again.

Annelies came up near me under the gas lamp. She put out her two hands. She didn't want, however, either to be embraced or to embrace.

"This ring, take it off."

I took off that suspicion-arousing ring with its even more suspicious manner of placement.

"You didn't like getting it?"

"I have never answered any of his letters."

In one flash I at last understood how Robert had felt all this time. He too loved Annelies. I studied the ring carefully. It was twenty-two carat gold, with a diamond. It wasn't clear whether the diamond was real or only imitation. It was too big to be a diamond; it was impossible that Suurhof had enough money to give away a present like this. I knew that his pocket money had never been more than twenty-five cents a month. And I knew his parents too — they couldn't remotely be classified as well off. Yes, even his mother had never been seen wearing a ring. And why didn't the ring come with its own box?

So I put it into my pocket.

"Give it back, Mas."

"Yes, I'll return it."

Night marched on. Suurhof and Fatso kept on harassing my thoughts.

Science was giving birth to more and more miracles. The legends of my ancestors were being put to shame. No longer was it necessary to meditate in the mountains for years in order to be able to speak to somebody across the seas. The Germans had laid a cable reaching from England to India! And these cables were multiplying and spreading all over the face of the earth. The whole world could now observe the behavior of any person. And people could now observe the behavior of the whole world.

But mankind and its problems remained as they have always been. And no more so than in matters of love.

Take that box that I had in my pocket—a cardboard box lined with black linen. Only two people knew its contents: Robert Suurhof and myself. Neither riches nor money, not diamonds, and no magical charm either. Only a letter from one human being, unsuccessful in gaining a love, to another who had won that love. What can be done! Even in the modern world, how to triumph in love could not be taught in schools.

"Minke, my friend," he wrote in large handwriting, though it was clear his pen shook as he wrote.

He asked forgiveness, expressed his great remorse that he had carried out injustices, had been dishonest, and even acted with malicious jealousy. It's strange, he wrote; the cause of all these acts was not evil but rather a pure and hopeful love for Miss Annelies Mellema. He told how he had seen Annelies five times but had never had the chance to speak to her—even the chimce to say hello had almost eluded him. He admitted that he had fallen in love and could not then accept reality. He endured great pain on seeing one Minke so easily gain entrance to Annelies's home and heart. It was not that he had given up hope — he claimed that such surrender was alien to him. He still kept up his hopes. Using all kinds of methods, he had sent her several letters. Not one had ever been answered. He was unable to forget her.

All is over for me now. For you it is just the beginning.

I admit I still feel unwilling to give up those hopes. There is no other way to ensure I forget than to leave the Indies.

Yes, Minke, I must learn to forget. Even though this is so, don't let the mistakes I have made in the past ruin our relations....

Twenty days after our marriage, a letter arrived from Colombo. Miss Magda Peters reported she had set sail on the same ship as Robert Suurhof. He was working as a sailor and seemed to be ashamed of the fact. Miss advised him that such shame was inappropriate: Such a job was not a humiliation for an H.B.S. student, especially as he had such strong intentions to continue his schooling.

At the same time a letter arrived from Sarah, telling of Singapore and all its wonders: its roadways, clean and wide; busy, yet without dust; and the ships in such great numbers it was as if the harbor did not have enough room. There were far more ships here, she wrote, than I have ever seen in Amsterdam. Even more, she wrote, than in Rotterdam.

On the other hand, a letter from Assistant Resident B-- told how his request to the Netherlands Indies government asking that the government help me continue my schooling in the Netherlands had been refused, even though my grades were quite high enough. The main thing required by the government was high moral character. And I didn't fulfill that, he wrote.

That, too, was a fruit of science's progress. Even my moral character had now been given a final unchallengeable brand. First of all by the school. Then by the reports on the course of the trial.

I did not, of course, hope for much from other people, yet that brand—so final-still hurt me greatly. I had never done harm to anyone else. I had never harmed another's reputation. I had never done away with other people's goods. I had never dealt in contraband. How was I to defend myself from such arbitrary judgments? Perhaps only Jean Marais taught the truth on this matter: People must be just and fair, starting with what they thought. It turned out that the Europeans themselves, and not just any Europeans either, were the ones who were unjust.

And the modern world had also, perhaps, taken news of me to Europe via those German-made sea cables.

Three months passed. My daily work consisted only of writing in the office and keeping Mama company. Sometimes I also helped her.

Jan Dapperste had received his letter of determination from the governor-general through the resident of Surabaya. His name was now Panji Darman. He was then freed from that hated name of Dapperste. Slowly, gradually, his character also changed—just as he had hoped. He was high-spirited, liked to work, and was generous and open. At first he helped Mama with the office work but then he was moved across to Mr. van Doomenbosch's office to help in running the spice business.

Another month passed. Mother visited us twice.

Five months passed. Sarah de la Croix sent letters to me twice. Miriam also reported that she was going to return to Europe, following after her elder sister. Mr. Herbert de la Croix would be staying on alone in that big, silent residency building and so she asked that I write to him more often.

Six months passed. And then happened what indeed inevitably had to happen: Annelies was summoned (along with Nyai) to appear before the (white) court. Who wouldn't have been startled? The court again. Now it was Annelies who received the main summons.

They left together. I stayed to carry on Mama's work. I wasn't able to finish all that much. I wrote some replies to the military barracks and the harbor master's office as well as the ships' chandlers. I noted down some new orders and some changes of customers' addresses. But the most difficult task was getting rid of the ex-Indies Army soldiers who kept pestering me and who wanted to court Mama.

I once saw Mama turn away some of them four times. The soldiers back from Aceh seemed to have made Nyai a major topic of conversation among themselves, and then they would, like soldiers of fortune, set out to catch the rich Mellema widow.

One of these men, an Indo, claiming he was a former Vanndrig—a junior lieutenant-even approached me. He had been awarded the bronze medal, he said, and had received ten hectares of good agricultural land near Malang as a part of his pension, and he wanted to become acquainted with Mama. Who knows, he said, perhaps later the two of them could go into partnership. At the end of the meeting, this man who claimed to be a former Vanndrig asked my help: Would I pass on all his words to Nyai? If I was successful, he said, he promised to give me whatever I asked for. This was also a part of my work.

He went away-forgetting to tell me his name.

Otherwise I wrote for S.N. v/d D.

They had been gone for more than three hours. I became more and more anxious. I stopped writing. Each time a milk cart came in, I went outside to have a look.

Four hours passed. The carriage I had been waiting for arrived at last:

"Minke, quickly!"

I ran to meet her on the front steps. Mama got out of the carriage first. Her face was scarlet. She put out her hand to An-nelies, who was still inside. And then out came my wife, ghostly pale and her face bathed in tears, mute. As soon as she alighted she fell into my arms and embraced me.

"Take her in!" Mama ordered me, roughly.

She strode quickly inside and went into her office.

"Have you had a fight with Mama?" I asked Annelies.

She shook her head. But no sound came out of her mouth. I went to take her upstairs. Her body was cold.

"Why is Mama angry?" I asked.

She didn't answer. And she refused to be taken upstairs. She asked with her eyes to be put down on the front-parlor settee.

"Are you ill, Ann?" and she shook her head. "What's the matter with you?" and I became anxious that something had seriously upset this fragile doll of mine. She seemed to be in a state of total confusion. "I'll get you something to drink."

I fetched a glass of water for her. She drank it, and it seemed that the tightness in her chest subsided.

"Darsam!" exclaimed Mama from the office.

I ran to fetch the Madurese fighter. I found him at home, in the middle of plucking out the unwanted hairs of his mustache.

"Quick, Darsam, Mama is angry."

He jumped off his chair. The little mirror and the tweezers fell onto the mat. By the time I reached the office he was already inside. Annelies too.

"Why don't you go to sleep, Ann?" Nyai admonished her hurriedly. My wife shook her head. Mama's face was still scarlet.

"What's happened, Mama?"

Darsam saluted Nyai and departed from the office. There must have been a carriage ready, because it was only a second before the sound of wheels could be heard grinding the pebbles on the roadway in front of the office.

Mama paid no attention to my question, went over to the window, shouted outside:

"Hurry! Be careful!" She turned around and went across to Annelies, caressed her hair, and generally tried to humor her. "You don't need to think about it. Let us look after it, Ann, me and your husband. " Then to me, "It's come at last, child, Minke, Nyo, what I've worried about all this time. I don't know much about the law. But we must try to fight it with all our strength and all our wealth."

"What's this all about, Mama?"

She pushed several documents into my hands, originals and copies, from the Amsterdam District Court, stamped by the Bureau of the Home Affairs Ministry, the Ministry for Colonies, the Ministry of Justice. On top of the pile was a letter from Engineer Maurits Mellema in South Africa to his mother, Amelia Mellema-Hammers, giving power of attorney to the latter party to make all arrangements in relation to rights of inheritance from the late Mr. Herman Mellema, his father, who had been killed in Surabaya, as he had been informed in a letter from his mother. Then there was a copy of a letter from Maurits Mellema's mother, written on behalf of her son, to the Amsterdam court, asking it to look after the rights of her son over the wealth and property of the late Mr. Herman Mellema.

Furthermore: copies of the Surabaya court and prosecutor's office's correspondence with the Amsterdam court, concerning whether or not there was a marriage certificate for Herman Mellema with Sanikem, whether or not there was a will made up by Herman Mellema before he died, the decisions of the court in relation to the murder carried out by Ah Tjong, a determination relating to the disappearance of Robert Mellema, copies of the certificates of acknowledgment by Herman Mellema of his children, Annelies and Robert Mellema, both of whom were given birth to by Sanikem as registered in the civil registry office. Then again there was correspondence between Nyai's accountant and the Surabaya court all relating to the accountant's refusal to make available any information relating to the assets of Boerderij Buiten-zorg without permission from those with the proper authority. Copies of documents from the Tax Office regarding the amount of taxes paid by the company. Copies of documents from the Livestock and Agriculture Office regarding the number of cattle and their condition.

I read each of the letters one by one under the gaze of Mama and Annelies, who seemed to be hoping for some opinion from me. I didn't know anything at all about any of the things mentioned in all those letters. And, indeed, I had never even dreamed that such letters existed in this world. And I never knew that there were people who were actually paid to write them.

Then there was the official document of the Amsterdam District Court. Its contents: an order that its decision on the case was to be executed by the Surabaya District Court. In brief it read:

Based upon the application to the Court by Maurits Mellema, son of the late Herman Mellema, made through his attorney, Mr. Hans Graegg, located in Amsterdam, the Amsterdam District Court, based upon official documents, provided by the Surabaya District Court, whose authenticity cannot be doubted, determines that the entire property and wealth of the late Herman Mellema, because of the absence of legal ties between Herman Mellema and Sanikem, be divided as follows: Maurits Mellema, as the legitimate child, to receive all property; Annelies and Robert Mellema, as legally recognized children, to receive Vfc each. Because Robert Mellema's whereabouts have been officially declared unknown, both temporarily as well as permanently, his inheritance is to be managed by Mr. Maurits Mellema.

The Amsterdam District Court also appointed Mr.

Maurits Mellema guardian over Miss Annelies Mellema, as the latter is still considered to be legally under age, and so therefore her inheritance will also be managed by Mr. Maurits Mellema. Mr. Maurits Mellema, as guardian of Annelies Mellema, through his attorney, Mr. Graegg, authorized another advocate located in Surabaya to bring action against Sanikem alias Nyai Ontosoroh, and Annelies Mellema, in the Court in Surabaya, over the guardianship of Annelies Mellema and her future upbringing in the Netherlands.

I felt as if I was about to faint as I read those official documents with their strange language. I could, however, understand one aspect of their contents very well: They looked upon human beings as no more than items in an inventory.

"Mama didn't say anything to them?"

"Look, Minke, child, Nyo, my attorney was waiting for us there when we arrived. He was the one who arranged to get all these letters. He, too, was the one who, before the judge, told us of the decision and explained it."

As I listened, the words of Mother came back to me: "The Dutch are very, very powerful but they have never stolen people's wives as did the kings of Java." But now, Mother? It is none other than your own daughter-in-law they are threatening to steal, to steal a child from her mother, a wife from her husband; and they want, too, to steal the fruits of Mama's hard work and everything she has strived to achieve over the last twenty years without ever a holiday. And all this was based upon no more than beautiful documents written by expert scribes and clerks with their indelible black ink that soaked halfway through the thickness of the paper. "It looks like we'll have to get help from a lawyer, Mama?"

"Mr. D-. will soon be here, I think."

That strange name had already made itself familiar during my recent complex and multifarious problems.

"Mr. D — . L — ."

For quite a long time I had tried to learn his name by heart and to write it. I had never met the man himself. Mama often went to him for legal advice. My image of him was of a big and fat man, like Herman Mellema, with thick blond hair all over his body. His name reminded me more of some kind of spirit. He must surely be a brilliant lawyer.

"Didn't Mama protest against the decision?"

"Protest? I did more than that—I completely rejected the decision. I know them, those Europeans, cold, hard like a wall. Their words are expensive. She is my child, I said. It is only I who have any rights over her. It was I who gave birth to her, who have brought her up. The judge only said: The documents show that Annelies Mellema is the acknowledged child of Herman Mellema. Who is her mother, who was it that gave birth to her? I asked. The documents state that her mother is the woman Sanikem alias Nyai Ontosoroh, but. ... I am Sanikem. Yes, he said, but Sanikem is not Mrs. Mellema. I can bring witnesses, I said, to prove that I gave birth to her. He said: Annelies Mellema is under European law, Nyai is not. Nyai is a Native. Had Miss Annelies Mellema not been legally acknowledged by Mr. Mellema she too would be a Native and this court would have had nothing to do with her. Minke, what could be more humiliating! So I said, I will fight this decision, using whatever attorney is able and willing. That's up to you, he said coldly. Annelies just cried and cried, so that I forgot about everything else."

She took a deep breath.

"You should have come too, Minke. You could have at least defended your wife and your interests, even if the court wasn't actually in session. Yes, even the judge has a wife, and children, too."

I am sure that everyone will know how I felt at that moment: angry, furious, annoyed, but not knowing what I had to do. In such matters I was still a smotty-nosed little boy.

"I said too: My child is already married. She is somebody's wife. He then just smiled, just a shadow of a smile, and answered:

She is not yet married. She is under age. If there has been somebody who carried out a marriage of her to somebody or married her, the marriage is not legal. You hear, Minke? Not legal."

"Mas?"

"They then threaten to charge me as an accessory to rape because I hadn't reported the marriage as illegal."

The office was still, silent. There were no customers about.

The three of us. were silenced. Once a brilliant and honest attorney would have been able to appeal successfully against the decision of the Amsterdam District Court. Oh, Amsterdam court! You had never even seen us. How can a court, and a European court too, manned by very educated people, experienced in matters of justice, with the degree of Bachelor of Laws, carry out the law this way, so opposed to our sense of law? Our sense of justice?

"I didn't even get on to talking about the division of the property. Yes, indeed, even though the land was bought in my name, I don't have enough documentation to prove to a European court of law that the company itself is my property. All I tried to do was to defend Annelies. At the time, all I could think of was her. Actually our business is only with Annelies, the judge said. You are a nyai, a Native, you have no business with this court." Mama grimaced savagely.

"In the end," she said later in a soft voice, "the issue is always the same: European against Native, against me. Remember this well: It is Europe that swallows up Natives while torturing us sadistically . . . Eu-r-ope . . . only their skin is white," she swore. "Their hearts are full of nothing but hate."

"And the attorney, he's a European too, Mama?"

"Just a slave to money. The more money you give him, the more honest he is with you. That's Europe."

I shuddered. Years and years of schooling were overturned with just the three short sentences of a nyai.

Annelies had fallen asleep, exhausted by all the emotional tension; she lay with her head on top of the table. I went up to her and woke her up.

"Let's go upstairs, Ann."

She refused to move — and sat up straight again in her chair.

"Get some sleep, Ann. Let us look after you," entreated Mama, and Annelies complied.

I took her upstairs, put her to bed, and began to humor her:

"Mama and I will work hard, Ann."

She just nodded, and I knew with all my heart I had lied to her—I knew nothing about all the ins and outs of the law. How then could I work hard at it?

"You stay here, yes, Ann?"

She nodded again. But I couldn't bring myself to leave her in this condition —like a fish that was already in the frying pan. How moving was the fate of this fragile doll, my wife. It looked as if she had lost the will to do anything at all.

"I'll call Dr. Martinet, yes, Ann?"

She nodded.

I went downstairs and gave orders that someone fetch the family doctor. I saw Marjuki racing his buggy off towards Surabaya.

In the office, Mama was with a European man who was small-bodied, like one's little finger, perhaps only up to my shoulder in height, thin and flat. His head was slippery bald, and his eyes just a little slanted. He wore horn-rimmed glasses. Mama was watching him reading the documents regarding Annelies from the Amsterdam District Court. So that was Mr. D — . L—. It was clear he was no spirit. And he had been Mama's lawyer all this time.

I was amazed Mama wanted to deal with him. Just a while ago, before the judge, he hadn't said or done anything, had he? I watched them both. Mama was no longer so red-faced. Her movements were calmer now.

"Minke, this is Mr. D — . L — . ..." and we shook hands. "This is Minke, the husband of my daughter, my son-in-law."

"Ah yes, I've heard a lot about you. Could I just finish studying these documents first?" and without waiting for an answer, he resumed his work.

A person no bigger than one's little finger, with a face full of craters from the explosions of so many pimples—just how far would he be able to go in confronting the arbitrariness and might and coldness of European law and justice? And as a European, on whose side would he ultimately stand?

And he studied the documents one by one, turning them over and reading them again.

Mama rushed about finishing her own work, then even served him drinks. And the lawyer kept on with his inspection of the documents as if nothing at all was going on around him.

Finally, one hour later, he piled the letters together and put a paperweight on top of them, a black stone. He meditated importantly, wiped his face with his handkerchief, and then gazed across at me, then at Mama, and he didn't say a word.

"So what about it, Mr. L—.?" asked Mama. "Oh, I'm sorry, I'm still not sure how to pronounce your name properly."

He smiled—just briefly—which turned out to be because of missing teeth.

"Oh, that's all right, that's just my name for signatures, Nyai."

I don't mind if people are unable to pronounce it. It doesn't even worry me if they don't even try. " "You can still make jokes while we're suffering a situation such as this, Mr. L—! We're already half crazy with all this!"

"That is the way it is, Nyai, when the matter is a legal one. There is no point in changing one's feelings or countenance. The result is just the same whether people laugh, jump up and down, or cry and wail. It is always she who determines things in the end: the law."

"So we will be defeated in this matter?"

"It's better we don't talk about defeat, Nyai," said the attorney and his hands began to finger the documents once again. "We haven't begun trying yet. What I meant was that I hope Nyai will be as cold and calm as the law itself. Feelings have no influence over any of this. All anger and disappointment is in vain. Are you listening too, sir?" Suddenly he turned and faced me. "You understand Dutch?"

"I'm listening, sir."

"This concerns the fate of your wife and your marriage. The other side is in the stronger position. We will try if you and Nyai still want to fight the decision; at the very least we will get its execution postponed."

I understood at that moment: we would be defeated and our only duty now was to fight back, to defend our rights, until we were unable to fight back any longer — like the Acehnese in their fight against the Dutch according to Jean Marais's story. Mama also bowed her head. She more than just understood. She was going to lose everything: her child, her business, all the fruits of her efforts, and her personal property.

"Yes, Minke, child, Nyo, we will fight back," whispered Mama. And all of a sudden she looked old, and walked dispiritedly upstairs to check on her daughter.

Mr. D-L—., L.L.B, submerged himself once again in his study of the documents. My suspicion of this little finger-sized lawyer suddenly swelled to become so great that. I stayed and watched his hands closely to make sure he did not secrete any of those documents.

Another hour passed. Mama came down again and entered the office. She sat beside me, across from the jurist.

"Do you still need to study them, Mr. L—.?" she asked in her old voice—one with character.

The man lifted up his head, held back a grin, and said:

"We can try, Nyai."

"You do not believe we can win."

"We can try." He started his reading again.

Mama took the letters from him.

"Your fee will be sent to your office. Good afternoon."

Mr. D-. L-. stood up, nodded to us both, and was then escorted home by Darsam.

"Minke, we will fight them. Do you have the courage, child, Nyo?"

"We will fight, Mama, together."

"Even if we don't have a lawyer, we will be the first Natives to oppose the European court, child, Nyo. Isn't that also an honor?"

I had no idea of how I was to fight back, what I had to fight, who and how. I did not know either what should be my tools or through what mechanism we should endeavor. But: We'll fight!

"Fight, Mama, fight. We will fight back."

"If you could only get Annelies to get up and fight too, she wouldn't always be falling into illness and incapacity like this. She would become the best of all life companions for a husband such as you."

While waiting upon Annelies, I let loose my thoughts and allowed myself to concentrate on everything that had happened and was happening.

Engineer Maurits Mellema and his mother did indeed have reason to seek revenge on Herman Mellema. But what was hap- pening now? Their revenge did not make them spurn his inheritance; rather they wanted to make sure they got every cent. In fact, they too had wanted Annelies's papa to die. In their hearts they too had participated in and approved of Ah Tjong's actions. But they would not be punished. The life of the soul and the psyche are not mentioned in official letters.

Yes, this was nothing more than a case of the white race swallowing up Natives, swallowing Mama, Annelies, and me. Perhaps this was what was called a colonial case, if Magda Peters's explanation of things was right—a case of swallowing up a conquered Native people.

Suddenly I was reminded of the liberals who, according to my teacher, wanted to lessen the sufferings of the Natives. That, too, was what the S.D.A.P., the Dutch Social Democratic Workers Party, wanted. Ah, my good teacher. I regret now that I didn't go to see you off. If you were still in Surabaya, you would surely hold out your hand in assistance. At the very least you would offer us some guidance to help us. And you would do so gladly.

And as I thought about Magda Peters, there arose suspicions that were perhaps too fantastic: She had been forced to leave the Indies to make the execution of the Amsterdam District Court's decision easier! Perhaps you weren't really exiled but just gotten out of the way for the coming case. My suspicions then took on an even clearer form: Everything had been arranged beforehand by that satanic alliance between Maurits-Amelia and the Amsterdam District Court. If it was true that Magda Peters had been gotten out of the way, then it was the school director and the other teachers who knew how close she and I were. If my suspicions were correct, this whole thing, everything, was no more than a prearranged drama whose purpose was the sadistic torment of human beings. So even my graduation as number two in all of the Indies (to be number one was out of the question) was also no more than a play, manufactured to keep the radicals or the S.D.A.P. happy.

Should I have such grandiose suspicions as this? Was my thinking, as an educated person, fair and just? Was I not both too young and too ignorant to have such suspicions? I thought it over and over again. I couldn't avoid always coming back to the same condition: being inclined to accept my suspicions. My dismissal from school, the withdrawal of my dismissal, the closing down of the school discussions, the expelling of Magda Peters, the intervention of the assistant resident of B----, the invitation that was announced by the school director at the graduation party, and his own and the other teachers' absence at our wedding, and being represented only by the letter brought by Magda Peters. . . . No, I was not too ignorant or too young to understand. Each event was linked and entwined together so as to give victory to Maurits Mellema over the Native woman Sanikem, her daughter, and son-in-law, her wealth and property.

"You've got some ideas, Nyo?"

"Mama, this evening, if nothing goes wrong, my first writings on this affair will be published. If it is not greeted by common sense, Mama, we will be defeated. We need time."

"Don't think about defeat, Mr. L-. said, think first about the best way to fight back, the most honorable resistance. Mr. L-. was right, it was only his motives that were wrong. He only wanted bigger fees. That shrunken-up crocodile."

"We'll turn to the best of our European friends, Mama."

"Don't make any mistakes."

That afternoon I sent a cable to Herbert de la Croix, appealing to his conscience regarding our case. Also to Miriam. If no one Wanted to listen, then I would know: All that glorified European science and learning was a load of nonsense, empty talk. Empty talk! In the end it would all be nothing more than a tool to rob us of all we loved, all we owned: honor, sweat, rights, even child and wife.

That night Mama and I waited upon Annelies, who had to be drugged once again by Dr. Martinet so that she could sleep. The doctor was moved and saddened by the situation of his patient, her mother, and her husband, who were bound so tightly by manmade fate, a fate manufactured far away in the north.

"I am only a doctor, Nyai. I don't know about the law. I don't know about politics," he said, expressing his disappointment in himself.

He was the second person who had mentioned the word politics.

"It's only proper that I ask your forgiveness because I am unable to do anything to help lighten your sufferings. There are no important people among my close friends, because I have never joined any of the clubs."

And in what a modest manner the doctor presented himself.

"My only friends are those who have needed my help. I don't have anything more than that. I'm sorry."

"But you feel that the way we are being treated is unjust, yes?" asked Mama.

"Not just unjust. Barbaric!"

"That is enough, Doctor, if it has come from a sincere heart."

"Forgive me, there is nothing I am able to do."

He left us with such a pained face. At the door he spoke in a sighing voice:

"I used to think that the only real difficulty in the world was paying one's taxes. I never knew that under these heavens there could exist difficulties such as these."

He disappeared into the darkness, escorted by Darsam.

Five hours had passed since I sent off the telegrams to the de la Croixs. Five hours! And still no answer had arrived. Were Herbert and Miriam de la Croix not at home? Or were they laughing at us Natives?

"Yes, child, Nyo, we must fight back, we must resist. However good and kind any European has been to us, in the end they will be afraid to face up to the risks of resisting European law, their own law, especially if it's only to defend the interests of Natives. We need not be ashamed if we are defeated. We must know why. Look, child, Nyo, we, all the Natives, are unable to hire attorneys. Even if we have money it doesn't mean we are able to do so. The main reason is that we don't have the courage. And more generally still, we haven't learned anything. All their lives the Natives have suffered what we are now suffering. No one raises their voices — dumb like the river stones and mountains, even if cut up and made into no matter what. What a roar there would be if they all spoke out as we will now speak out. Perhaps even the sky itself would be shattered by the din."

Mama had begun to forget her own feelings. She was placing the matter in the context of a more basic problem. She had left behind her own heart and her family, she had now brought in the river stones, the mountains, the chalk and granite rocks that were strewn all over Java, throughout all the Indies; those with mouths but no voices, and yet with hearts within them.

"By fighting back we will not be wholly defeated," and the tone of her voice was pregnant with the knowledge of coming defeat.

"They know no shame, Mama."

"Shame is not a concern of European civilization." Mama stared wide-eyed at me as if she were angry with me. "You who have mixed with them all this time, how can you talk like that? You, child, Nyo, as a Native, should and must be ashamed to have such thoughts. Never again mention shame in relation to Europe. All they understand is getting their way. Never forget that, child, Nyo."

"Yes, Mama," I answered, acknowledging her superiority. The truth or otherwise of what she said was, of course, another matter.

"I've never been to school, child, Nyo. I've never been taught to admire Europeans. You could study for years and years, and no matter what you studied, your spirit will be educated to do the same thing: to admire Europeans without limits or end, so that you no longer know who you are and where you are. Even so, those who have been to school are still more fortunate. At the very least you get to know other races who have their own ways of thieving the property of other peoples."

My mother-in-law took a newspaper from the table. Inside, there was an article of mine, and comments on it by the editor.

"Your writings are so gentle, like the writings of a teenage girl waiting for a husband. Have you still not become hard with all your recent experiences, let alone this current one? Uncompromisingly hard? Minke, child, Nyo, "she went on in a whisper, as if there were someone else there who was listening in on us, "now you must write in Malay, child. The Malay papers are read by many more people."

"It's a pity, Mama, I can't write in Malay."

"If you're unable at the moment, let someone else translate for you."

And straight away I thought of Kommer. ""Good, Mama," I answered quickly.

"Your marriage is legitimate according to Islamic law. To nullify it is to insult Islamic law, to besmirch the laws honored by the Islamic community. . . . Ah, how I dreamed of a legitimate wedding for myself. Mellema always refused because he already had a wife. Now my child has married legitimately, more honorable than me. And it's not acknowledged."

"I'll work on it now, Mama. Mama should get some sleep."

And she went off to bed. Her strides were still strong and firm like those of an undefeated general.

It was ten minutes past three in the morning. My article was almost finished. Out of the predawn silence came the pounding of a horse's hooves, coming closer and closer, and finally entering our grounds. Not long after Darsam was calling out from below my window.

"Young Master, wake up!"

Below, in the light of an oil lamp held by Darsam, I saw Darsam with an Indo in the uniform of a postman. He saluted, and asked in Malay:

"Tuan Minke? There is a telegram from the assistant resident of B--" He left happily with a tip of five cents. The pounding of his horse's hooves disappeared in the distance to the accompaniment of the cock's crows.

"Young Master has already done a lot of work. It's already dawn. Get some sleep, Young Master. There will still be other days."

He didn't know a thing about what was happening. But I could sense he was anxious at seeing all the activity that was going on. Ah, Darsam, a thousand such as you, even with two thousand machetes, would be unable to help us. This is not a problem of flesh and steel, Darsam. This was a matter of rights, law, and justice—you cannot protect us with dagger and machete. Suddenly there was a reprimand: You must be fair and just, starting with how you think. Darsam the fighter with his machete, even the mute stones and rocks can help you — if you know and understand them. Never belittle the capabilities of a single person, let alone two.

"Very well, I'll get some sleep now, Darsam."

"Yes, go to sleep, Young Master. A new day will bring new opportunities."

How wise too was this black-clothed man, I went upstairs and read the telegram:

A wellknown Jurist Will Arrive From Semarang the Day After Tomorrow, Trust Him. Meet Him At the Station. Express Train, Greetings To Nyeye and Annelies.

Miriam and Herbert.

Mother! Mother! at last my cries have been heard. And you yourself have not even heard what is happening. Sleep deeply, Mother. I will not awaken you. Not now either. And here, your beloved son will not run. He will stay and fight. He is no criminal, Mother. Your beloved daughter-in-law will not be stolen away. She will present to you the grandchildren you long for, so one day you will be able to attend their weddings as Javanese.

An article about the contravening of Islamic law by European law appeared in Dutch in S.N. v/d D. Malay versions appeared in the Malay-Dutch press. They all appeared on the same afternoon. Mr. Maarten Nijman himself came around to our house to deliver the complimentary copy.

"You have helped us a lot all this time. Now it is our turn to help you as much as we can," he said. "But there is nothing else we can do to help lighten your own and your family's burdens. All of the editorial staff and the workers at the paper have high regard for your resistance, and express their true and sincere sympathy— so young, like a sparrow harassed by a storm, but yet still fighting back. Another person would have been broken even before the fight started, Mr. Tollenaar."

He borrowed a picture of Annelies to publish.

"If possible, also a picture of you and Nyai."

Mama give him a big picture of my wife in full Javanese dress adorned with diamonds and pearls.

"It's only a pity that we won't be able to publish the picture soon. We'll have to wait almost two months," Nijman explained. "The Indies is still a wilderness. There is no factory here that can copy this picture onto tin: zincography is still not yet known here. We'll get the negative made in Hong Kong. If Hong Kong can't do it because of all the orders from Southeast Asia, then we'll have to send it to Europe to get done. Longer still. If we succeed it will not only mean greater impact, but we will be the first in the Indies to publish from a tin negative."

He talked a lot and asked to be introduced to and meet with Annelies herself. And we refused on the grounds that she was ill.

"Is Miss Annelies with child?" asked Nijman. "Forgive the question. It might seem improper, but it could change the situation. It could nullify Maurits Mellema's decision even if the Amsterdam court's decision still stood."

Annelies pregnant? I had never even thought about it. I couldn't answer. Neither could Mama; instead she looked questioningly at me.

After Nijman left, Kommer arrived, also bringing a complimentary copy of his paper.

"Nyai, Mr. Minke," he said, "your writings will soon be in the villages. We've hired men to read them out to the people. People gather arou,nd and listen. Fifteen special copies with the relevant parts underlined in red have been sent off to the leading Islamic scholars. They must also speak out. I'm going to try to get their opinions tonight. You and Nyai will not stand alone. Look upon Kommer here as a friend of the family in its time of trouble."

We set off to Surabaya together. He got off at Gunungsari. I went on to the station to meet the attorney whose name I still didn't know. Kommer, before I left him, shook my hand from outside the buggy. His eyes shone with his enthusiasm for the humanitarian task he was undertaking. Then he waved his hands, and my buggy started off again.

The attorney I met turned out to be middle-aged. He had a calm demeanor and he smiled a lot, and liked to listen, not like Mr. D-. L-. His name was Mr.___ _. I'll not mention his name here either. He was a famous jurist and a very wealthy man as a result of his practice as a brilliant attorney and advocate, and his name was often, mentioned in connection with many big cases.

He stayed at our house. He studied Annelies's file all night, and asked that two scribes be hired to make copies of every document. Panji Darman, formerly Jan Dapperste, and I acted as scribes. But I was sacked in the end because of my bad handwriting and because I made so many mistakes. So Darsam had to go out that night and find a clerk from the D.P.M., who also brought the special ink used for official documents.

Mr. (whose name I don't dare mention; and who could tell if he might be unsuccessful in this case and his practice affected) studied it all until morning. The scribes made two copies of each document. At six in the morning they had to leave for their regular jobs, so we had to hire two more people.

At seven o'clock in the morning Mr.--began to write a long letter, of which the new scribes made several copies. Taking one set of the copies, he headed off to the European court in Surabaya with Darsam. He arrived back again in the evening and went straight to sleep.

We didn't know what had happened at the court.

The afternoon news, as published by Kommer, reported that the Islamic scholars had gone to the European court at Surabaya to protest the decision of the Amsterdam District Court and its execution by the Surabaya court. They threatened to take the matter to the Islamic Religious Supreme Court in Betawi. And they were removed by the police especially brought in for that necessity.

The commentary, which seemed to have been written by Kommer himself, warned that it would be wise for those in power to act more tactfully in dealing with the Islamic scholars who were held in respect, honored, exalted, and listened to by the followers of Islam in this region. It is dangerous to play with the beliefs of the people, much more dangerous than to make fun of powerless subjects of the realm or rob them of their rightful property and their women and children.

For the second time Kommer emerged as a friend. He was so skillful at speaking for us, for our situation, and for the general conditions of the Natives. His words were so simple and moving, yet confident and fiill of substance. And not without risk.

S.N. v/d D. published an interview between Nijman and Nyai:

For more than twenty years now I have worked my bones, building, defending, and keeping alive this business, both with and then without the late Herman Mel-lema. I've looked after this business better than I have my own children. Now it is all being stolen from me. The attitude, illness, and incapacity of the late Mr. Mellema resulted in my losing my first child. Now another Mellema is going to steal my youngest also. Through the use of European law, he is having me torn from all that is mine by right, and all that I love. If that is indeed his deliberate intention towards us, all I can do is to ask:

What is the point of having all these schools if they still don't teach what are people's rights and what are not, what is right and what is not?

And he wrote up his conversation with me as follows:

We married of our own accord, and our marriage was approved of by the girl's parents. Our persons are our own property; we are nobody else's property; slavery was abolished by law in 1860, or so, at least, we have been taught in our history lessons. Now with the impending kidnapping of my wife, in accordance with the court's decision, I wish to ask the conscience of Europe:

Is that accursed slavery going to be brought back? How can human beings be looked upon purely from the point of view of official documents and without considering their essence as human beings?

Then there was an interview with Dr. Martinet:

I have known this family quite some time now. So I understand the situation of Annelies Mellema's health, both before she married, and afterwards. With a heavy heart I have to say that this girl loves her husband, her mother, and her surroundings very much. She is very, very attached to all three. If indeed the Amsterdam District Court's decision is executed, the life of this girl could be destroyed through the emotional turmoil that will result. Even now Annelies has to be sedated. She has lost all faith in the existence of security, certainty, and legal guarantees. Her spirit has been crammed full of fears and uncertainties. Must I continue to drug her while outside there is the sun, laughter, and joy? Why must this young angel become the plaything of decisions that have no real connection with her life and happiness? As a doctor I cannot accept the responsibility for what might happen if I have to continue drugging her.

The attorney from Semarang, Mr.--, read through every

thing that was connected with our case. He made notes but never spoke to us. Nor did we bother him with any questions. In the evening he read the papers from other towns. Only after all this did he finally begin to speak about many things.

"We must be resolute, Nyai ... sir . ." Then he asked Mama:

"Why, really, didn't Mr. Mellema ever marry Nyai legally?"

Mama answered:

"I didn't understand why Mr. Mellema didn't want to marry either, although I often pressed him to marry me. I only realized what the situation was after the sudden arrival here, at this house, of Maurits Mellema, his son, five years ago. Only then did I understand that Mr. Mellema was still legally bound to the mother of that engineer."

Mr.——— turned and looked at her in amazement.

"So they were never divorced? If that's so then it was impossible for Mr. Mellema to acknowledge his children legally here, because such children are considered bastards and acknowledgment of them is not considered legal. But if that's so, then Nyai's position in this case is much stronger!"

Within Mama and me feelings of hope were awakened once again. Mama was angry: Why had not Mr. D.-L.-thought of that point? But some days later Mr. - reported to us that such a defense would not help us either.

Mr. said: "After sending off a telegram to Holland checking things out, it has been shown that Mrs. Amelia Mellema-Hammers, after her husband had left her for five years without giving any address, did apply for a divorce in the Dutch courts on the grounds of desertion. After efforts to find Mr. Mellema were unsuccessful, in 1879 the divorce was granted. So the marital ties between them were already nullified when your child, Robert, was born." Then he asked: "Did Mr. Mellema know of this divorce?"

"I don't think so," answered Mama. Mama thought for a moment, then exploded: "If this is all true then Maurits Mellema lied to his father when they met that time five years ago! He challenged his father to institute divorce proceedings against Mrs. Mellema on the grounds that she had been unfaithful. He destroyed his father's spirit with that conversation."

With fury in her eyes Mama sat silently, not saying a single word, but I saw her hands shaking because of the overflowing of her emotions. Our picture of Maurits Mellema was only getting worse. It seems he deliberately set out to destroy his father's spirit and so speed up his death. And all for money.

The next morning Mr.-returned to Semarang.

We were left without the support of an attorney, without any direct means of fighting the court's decision.

"All right, Mama, only the pen is left," and so I wrote, calling out, speechifying, complaining, roaring, swearing, crying out in pain, agitating.

Kommer translated them all and gave them out to those who were prepared to publish them.

And it was not without results.

The Religious Supreme Court in Surabaya issued a statement: Our marriage was legitimate and could not be disturbed or nullified. On the other hand, some of the colonial papers started flinging insults, curses, and slights at us. Nijman's and Kommer's papers were busy summarizing all the various statements.

While Annelies, my wife, that fragile doll of mine, was lying like a corpse on her bed. Surabaya was in a fever over her, Nyai's, and my troubles. Kommer kept on fighting too. His paper was being read, and also read out aloud in the villages, and big crowds of people stopped to listen everywhere. Without going by way of eyes, without going by way of ears and mouth, the news had spread and had become a matter of wide public controversy.

Finally Darsam also found out what was happening without ever having to ask us. He was busy reading the Malay papers with the help of his children.

Once again Annelies and Nyai received a summons from the court. It was impossible for Annelies to go. Only Mama and I went, unaccompanied by an attorney. Dr. Martinet waited upon ▪> my wife.

The judge immediately asked where Annelies Mellema was. "111. In the care of Dr. Martinet."

"Have you brought a letter from the doctor?"

I was startled to hear Nyai answer coarsely:

"Has the court already decided that my mouth cannot be trusted?"

"Good," answered the judge, red-faced. "Nyai should be more polite."

"Should someone about to lose everything show politeness in the face of her loss? Just tell us what you want."

The judge deliberately avoided a clash with the Native woman. He gave in.

"Good. In my hand is the Surabaya court's decision regarding Miss Annelies Mellema, the acknowledged child of the late Mr.

Herman Mellema. In accordance with this decision, Miss Annelies Mellema is to be transported from Surabaya by ship in five days' time.

"She's ill," answered Mama.

"There are good doctors on board."

"I refuse to let her go. I'm her husband."

"We have no business with anyone who claims or who doesn't claim to be her husband. She is still unmarried, without a husband."

There was no way to get this devil to be reasonable. He took out his pocket watch, rose from his chair, and left us.

The two of us left the building in complete anger. I asked Mama to go home first. I got in touch with Kommer and Nijman to tell them the news, and even helped in getting the report ready, right up to setting the headlines.

That afternoon the news was published.

I found Dr. Martinet waiting upon Annelies and Mama. The two of them sat silently, heads bowed. Neither of them seemed to want to talk at all.

The next morning something amazing occurred.

The Surabaya court's decision had angered and infuriated many people and groups. A crowd of Madurese, armed with machetes and large sickles, had surrounded our house, and were attacking any Europeans or state employees who tried to enter our compound.

The traffic felt it had to stop to watch what was happening.

A Madurese, wearing all-black clothes, walked back and forth with his shirt open, showing his chest, as if it was being deliberately readied to fight anyone and face any risk. The tip of his headband with its long tail fell o.ver his shoulder.

From Annelies's window they could be heard continuously cursing and condemning the white court's decision as the act of infidels, as sinful, damned in this world and the next. From early in the morning until eleven o'clock they controlled our compound.

All the activities of the business stopped. The workers dispersed in fear and went home to their villages.

Two companies of police arrived, escorted by government carriages. The ringing of their copper bells could be heard from afar. Not paying any heed to the Madurese, the carriages came straight into our grounds. We could see from our room some of the Madurese swinging their great sickles against the legs of the horses. Two carriages went out of control and into the garden, splashing into the swan pond. Out of the carriages that succeeded in entering the yard jumped uniformed men with carbines who tried to disperse the Madurese. Those under attack did not want to leave. A fight took place.

From where I was, I saw two policemen felled, bathed in blood. The uniformed men finally didn't know what else to do and fired off their rifles into the air.

Here and there could be seen a Madurese laid out, also covered in blood.

The police commandant, a Pure-Blood, swore at his men for firing their rifles. A stone flew through the air and struck his temple. He swayed about, fell, and did not rise again. A black Dutchman, an Ambonese from the Moluccas, who seemed to take command, shouted out that the Madurese must be dealt with more harshly. His arm caught a machete and as quick as lightning his shirt turned dark red. The wailing of the Madurese shouting out the greatness of God was unexpectedly frightening. But in the end they were chased away and ran in all possible directions.

On the grass, in the yard, bloodied bodies were strewn about.

A company of Marechaussee, fresh from training in Malang, were brought in to take over from the police, who were considered to have disobeyed orders by firing their rifles, even though only into the air. The police were sworn at and insulted by the Marechaussee and ordered to leave quickly and to pull out the two carriages that had gone into the pond.

A group made up of Madurese, as well as others, charged the compound. It seems they thought the police were still in charge of the operation. Realizing that it was now the Marechaussee they were facing, they hesitated. Some even ran off before entering the compound. Indeed the whole of the Indies feared the Marechaussee, a special command made up of specially chosen troops of the Netherlands Indies Army. They only used rubber truncheons, no firearms or blade weapons. They were famous as a company of fighters.

From the window I saw their leaf-green bamboo hats with the shining copper lion symbol bob up and down amongst the new group of attackers. Their whistles sounded noisily again and again and their truncheons swung round and round, striking and poking, thrusting and thumping. The fight between truncheons and whistles and the other sharp and blunt instruments lasted about half an hour. Two Marechaussee died on the spot.

That time too the protesters were chased away. Darsam was arrested and taken away to who knows where.

After things had calmed down Sergeant Hammerstee banged on the door, wanting to enter. Mama opened it and blocked the way.

"Nyai Ontosoroh?" he asked in Malay.

"I have no business with the Marechaussee."

"This complex is to be guarded by the Marechaussee."

"It's nothing to do with me. No one steps inside my house without my permission."

"I, Marechaussee Sergeant Hammerstee, have come to request permission."

"I do not give permission."

"In that case we will camp in the compound."

Nyai slammed the door shut, locked it from inside, and stood behind it for some time. Looking at me, she said:

"Give in to them once and they'll end up doing as they please. Don't worry. Nothing will happen. They have no papers about this house. They only believe in papers. No matter how tremendous they are, it's all meaningless without papers. Paper determines more, is more powerful." Her voice was bitter.

From the window too I saw Dr. Martinet have his turn in being denied entry by Sergeant Hammerstee after they argued at the main gate for a minute. Their voices couldn't be heard from where I was. His motions indicated that Martinet wished to see his patient, but he was refused. He remained stubborn. But then the doctor climbed aboard his carriage and left.

Now we had to care for Annelies without a doctor.

In the afternoon, Annelies slowly began to awake from her sedation. She opened her big eyes, looked left and right, as if glimpsing the world for the first time ever, then closed them again, and after that opened them again.

"Ann, Annelies," I called.

She looked at me. Her lips opened, pale and bloodless. No voice emerged. I took some chocolate milk and put the glass up to her lips. Silently she drank down almost half a glass, stopped, and sat up in bed. Mama sat silefrtly observing her. Suddenly Mama rose and left the room. At first I guessed she went out back to supervise looking after the cows.

And not long after I heard her voice, half-shouting, in Dutch:

"Everybody may go to the Netherlands! Why can't I?"

I took a peep outside in the garden. Nyai was speaking to a Pure-Blood European who stood with hands on hips. His voice was too soft for me to catch his words. The man shook his head for a moment, sometimes shook his finger.

"What does it matter to you if I accompany my own child? I'll use my own money, nobody else's."

The visitor shook his head again.

"Show me the rules where it is written down I can't accompany my own child."

The visitor seemed to move his hands but not his body.

"Smallpox certificate? Health certificate? My child doesn't have one either. On the contrary, she is ill. Get innovated on board? I can do that too."

I left them both there in the garden. Annelies seemed to be trying to get down out of bed. I helped her to walk. I took her over to the window because that was her favorite place. And we stood there for a long time. But it was impossible to stay silent forever. I forced myself to speak:

"You've never got so far as the mountains, Ann? From the top, you could see all of Wonokromo and Surabaya. We'll go there one day."

You couldn't actually see the mountains. They were covered by clumps of clouds and overcast, like white coffee not properly stirred, made by some lazy person. Low-hanging clouds blocked off the usually black-green forest. Far off in the distance, I couldn't guess how far, lightning flashed, king of the heavens, for a moment. The clouds and grayness then disappeared again to who knows where. Nature was busy with its own affairs.

And beside me, my wife let out a long breath.

Mama entered again. She sat down on the chair, silently, without speaking, as if nothing had happened. When I looked her way, she waved her hand, calling me over. I left Annelies by the window.

"Minke, you must tell her, Minke, her departure is in three days' time."

I had to tell her, because I was her husband. It was indeed my responsibility —a responsibility I still hadn't carried out because of everything that had been keeping me so busy lately. Annelies had to know: We were defeated, crushed, without ever being able to defend ourselves, let alone fight back.

In the distance, riature was still miserable and was becoming more so with every flash of lightning. Under the window our swan pond had been damaged but still hadn't been repaired. A company village, usually visible from the window, and full of playing children, was now still, without any signs of life.

I approached my wife. I put my hands on her shoulders and placed my cheek against her cold cheek. I gathered together all my courage.

"Ann!" She didn't look, neither was there any other response. "Ann, my Annelies, my wife, will you listen to me?"

She ignored me. The fingers of her left hand slowly scratched her neck. That beautiful neck, covered by her crumpled hair, was more perfect than nature outside.

We had only three days left together. She would leave, my darling, my most beautiful doll in the world. What will happen to you later, Ann? And what about myself? Will you be like the lightning outside, flashing for a moment, reigning supreme over all around you, only then to disappear forever? Someone who does not know you at all has suddenly judged you and punished you this way. Someone else again, they too not knowing anything, will separate you from us, and from everything that you love. You were so fragile and pale, Ann. Mama and I had become so thin ourselves.

How sad and moving you were, Ann, so beautiful, but never having had the chance to enjoy your own beauty and youth.

"Don't you want to listen, Ann?" She still paid no heed. "Do you like the mountains over there, Anri?"

There was a hint of a nod, affirming.

"We should have gone riding there, yes, Ann? And Mama will stay at home. We'll go by ourselves, just the two of us, Ann."

Once again she nodded imperceptibly.

"Your favorite horse Bawuk neighs, asking after you all the time, Ann."

She bowed her head. Then, so slowly, she turned around and looked at me and her eyes were like a pair of dreaming daytime star eyes. Her mouth remained mute, and it smelled of medicine.

Mama couldn't hold back her feelings anymore. I could hear her crying and she left the room. About ten minutes later she came in again with another European. He walked straight to where we were standing.

"Government doctor," he said without giving his name, "here to examine the health of Miss Annelies Mellema."

"Mrs.," I retorted. ( He paid no heed to me. He lea my wife off and sat her down on the bed. He took out a stethoscope from his long coat and began the examination. With eyes popping out, he then checked her blood pressure, tilting his head towards the ceiling. He put the stethoscope back in his pocket. He then examined my wife's eyes. After that he smelled her breath coming from her nose and mouth. He shook his head.

Mama watched all this in silence. The government doctor ordered his patient to lie down.

"Nyai!" he said in the coarsest of Malay. "Why have you allowed this child to be drugged so heavily?"

"Do you wish to leave this house immediately?" replied Nyai in a Malay whose tone was even coarser.

"Don't you understand yet? I'm the government doctor."

"So what do you want?" snapped Mama.

"You can all be charged! Dr. Martinet too! Watch out!"

"Make your charges in your own house, not here. There's no need for you to work your mouth so much here. The door can still swing on its hinges."

The government doctor went scarlet. He turned to me.

"You listen too," he said, using, as with Mama, the coarsely familiar word for you. "You can be a witness to this talk, eh?"

"Indeed the door hasn't been nailed shut yet," I said.

Nyai and I went over to Annelies and raised her up so she could eat.

"She's weak, too weak. Let her sleep. Her heart. Don't disturb her," ordered the government doctor.

We got her off the bed and sat her on the settee.

"I'll fetch some food, Ann. Pay no heed to anyone or anything."

She nodded weakly.

The doctor approached me in a threatening manner, and indeed, threatened me:

"You're trying to oppose my orders, heyl" "I know my wife better than any outsider," I answered in Malay, without looking at him.

"Good," he said and left the room. "Watch out!"

"Why won't you speak, Ann?" She was still silent. "Will you listen to me, Ann? That puffed-up doctor has gone. Don't be afraid." / I followed her eyes, which were directed out the window, and let my eyes head for the mountains, which were still covered by clouds. Mama observed my actions without speaking.

Annelies chewed slowly, very slowly, each time hesitating at swallowing.

From behind me I heard Mama speak, more to herself:

"Maurits before dug up past blood sins. Now he demands the wages of those sins. Before I thought he was some holy prophet. ..."

"There's no use in remembering, Ma," I said without turning to look at her.

"Yes, memories sometimes torture. Indeed there's no use in remembering. Have you told her, child, Nyo?"

"Not yet; Mama."

"Speak Ann. You've been silent so long."

Annelies looked at me. She smiled. Smiled! Annelies smiled! Mama opened her eyes wide in amazement. You're getting better, Ann, I exclaimed in my heart.

Mama rose from her place, embraced her child, kissed her, mumbling:

"The sadness disappears because of your smile, Ann, for your husband too. It's been too much, you not speaking all this time." And her tears streamed forth.

Annelies blinked slowly, so slowly, as if she didn't really want to open her eyes again.

Dr. Martinet had once said: Her difficulty was that she wanted to consolidate tightly what was already there. She didn't want to let go of what she had already seized hold of. But a crisis could one day occur which would force her to let go of everything and she would no longer care about anything that happened to her. Was this the stage my wife was at now? I didn't know. Dr. Martinet was not allowed to see her. His last words had been: If Annelies could be convinced to surrender to the situation, she would be safe. And how were things now? I didn't know. Mama didn't know. How far away you were, Doctor!

While she was under Martinet's care she was, so he explained, still clinging tightly to things as they were. We'd all been defeated, he said, all our efforts had failed, while Annelies didn't want to understand any of this. She did not seem to rebel, but within her there was disarray as an uncertain war raged. Only being sedated could save her from psychological damage. If not, it might happen that nothing again would have value for her. Or, on the other hand, she could become worthless to anyone. Remember Mr. Mellema. So, if she becomes conscious, talk to her without pause, about things beautiful, good; things of hope and pleasant things.

And now it was my job as husband to tell her the bitter truth: Three more days! And she wouldn't be drugged. Dr. Martinet was not allowed to see her.

The doctor had also once said: Annelies has passed the crisis period. He said that just a little while before we married. Now a new crisis was upon her. This time also, he said, I'm not her doctor, but you, her husband, the person she loves. You must try to leave with her for the Netherlands. Nyai will be able to pay for the trip: one hundred and twenty guilders. That wouldn't be too expensive for her.

They had forbidden us to escort her.

Try, said Dr. Martinet, by whatever means. Don't let the life of your wife be wasted. She will not be able to live without you. You now are the only thing to which she clings.

I felt that I had done everything within my power, and I had been defeated. The Amsterdam District Court could not be opposed. The Surabaya court for Europeans had pronounced that Mama and I had no connection with my wife. Nyai herself cleverly ordered Panji Darman, formerly Jan Dapperste, to set sail "to look after the spice business" in the Netherlands and to befriend Annelies as my representative. Nyaj had forbidden him to come to Wonokromo to avoid suspicion falling upon him. And a Netherlands Transport Company agent brilliantly placed him in a second-class cabin next door to Annelies's cabin. The agent was the one who also got his health certificate predated.

The face of my wife was like chiseled marble, as if the nerves

in her face had been severed from her brain. There was no movement, no expression whatsoever, and she still didn't speak. I had tried from every angle, used every approach to tell her of the day of her departure. It had all failed.

She ate no more than four spoonfuls, then did not want to open her mouth again. I don't know how many times Nyai nervously walked in and out of the room. Once when the room was empty I embraced my wife and I forced myself to haye the courage to whisper in her ear:

"Ann, we're defeated, Ann; we were to go with you on the boat to the Netherlands, but they will not allow us. Ann, do you hear me, Ann?"

She still did not respond.

"I don't know what you're thinking. But you need to know, Ann: Jan Dapperste will be there in place of Mama and me. In three days he will escort you as you set sail for Europe. Don't be afraid, Ann. Once you've arrived there, Mama and I will follow," And Annelies still paid no attention. Yet I had carried out my duty as her husband, a duty by no means fully accomplished: She still hadn't responded. How many times would I have to repeat the information? I kissed her. Still no response. Perhaps Dr. Martinet was right? She had passed the crisis point and was now beginning to set everything free?

For the umpteenth time Mama entered. This time she handed over a telegram from Herbert de la Croix and a letter from Mother.

The assistant resident of B--passed on his regrets that the attorney he had sent had failed. He shared, our sadness and expressed his sympathy for us. In his rather long telegram he also stated that the Amsterdam court's decision was unjust. He had telegraphed the government-general saying that he would resign from his position if the court's decision was carried out. He had also sent a telegram to protest to the Ministry of Justice, all to no avail—they didn't even bother to answer. So he was going to resign and return to Europe with Miriam.

And Annelies herself? She had still lost her interest in everything. And I talked and talked, told story after story. And she still wouldn't talk. Perhaps she wasn't even listening. I carried her back to bed and I laid her down, and myself lay down beside her. It was lucky I knew so many stories as well as the legends of my ances- tors. And yet I had already told them all. The European story of Prince Genevieve at least four times, Gulliver's Travels twice, Baron von Munchhausen twice, and Little Duimpje perhaps more than four times. And there were still the mouse-deer stories. My voice was already hoarse. I still added to all these stories, others of my own experiences that were a bit funny.

Embracing my wife, I told fairy tale after fairy tale. I brought my mouth close to her ear-something she liked.

When I awoke, the night had passed, the room was bright with the rays of the sun. Yet my tiredness hadn't been chased away by the sleep whose length I didn't know. And all of a sudden I realized: Annelies was embracing me, kissing me, and caressing my hair. I sat up in a hurry.

"Ann, Annelies!" I shouted. I held her wrist and I felt how her pulse was not as slow as the day before.

"Mas!" she answered.

Was it true that my Annelies was beginning to speak? was I just dreaming? I rubbed my eyes. Dream, don't bother me like this! But my eyes saw my wife smiling. Her face was pale, her teeth dirty. And her eyes did not share the smile.

"Ah, Annelies, my Annelies! You're well again, Ann!" I embraced her and kissed her. My efforts and labor all these last days hadn't been wasted.

"Food is ready, Mas, let's eat," she said gently, exactly as she used to.

I looked at her. Was Dr, Martinet right: Had she been flung off balance, shocked, so her mind was no longer able to work properly? I looked closely at her eyes. And those eyes were sad. Her lips still smiled but her eyes did not; instead, it was as if she had gone cross-eyed.

"Mama!" I shouted. "Annelies is well again."

And Mama didn't appear.

And without having washed first, I sat in that room facing the dinner.

There was no spoon or fork or plate before me. Only before Annelies. Had she lost her mind or was I to eat alone?

She began to spoon up the food and feed it to me.

"I can eat myself, Ann. It's you who must eat, let me feed you."

She didn't eat, but fed me again. And I had to chew and swallow. I must not offend her—I knew that with certainty—and so I ate until I was full.

"Why are you feeding me like this?"

"Once in my life let me feed my husband." She went silent and did not want to speak again.

Today—the last day.

The business had come to a total standstill. The Marechaussee were stopping everybody from entering our front grounds. All we were allowed to do was milk the cows.

Mama's protests were ignored.

"It's not costing Nyai anything," they retorted. "It's the people of the Netherlands who are suffering the losses."

Many letters arrived. There was no opportunity to reply. There was no time really to read them either. The papers sent by Nijman piled up untouched.

Mama, I, and especially Annelies, were not allowed to leave the house, except to wash and to go to the toilet. So we were under house arrest.

The Marechaussee soldiers only left their tents in the compound to chase off people who gathered on the edge of the road who were expressing their sympathy for us, perhaps, or were only there to have a look.

Annelies looked more like her usual self, although she was skinny and pale and her eyes were dead.

"Tell me about Holland according to Multatuli's stories," she suddenly asked.

"There was a country on the edge of the North Sea. . . ." I began as best I could. "Its land was low-lying, so it was called the Land of Low Country—Netherlands, or Holland." When I reached that point I could find no way to continue. Those dreaming eyes of hers, still sad, looked at me so strangely, as if I were some new kind of blue-tailed lizard that she was seeing for the first time in her life. "Because the land was so low-lying, people became bored with repairing their dikes, so it became their habit to leave their country, to wander, Ann, to admire those other countries with their mountains. Then to conquer them, of course. In those high countries they made the people low. Nobody was allowed to even approach the height of a Dutchman."

"Tell me about the sea."

A European woman in white clothes and hat entered without knocking. Nyai and I let her do so; during the last few days anyone and everyone had been coming in and out of our rooms. She would only annoy us anyway.

"In four more hours you will be sailing across the sea, and more sea, and more sea, dear," the new arrival said, taking over my job. "There are more fish than you would ever imagine. Waves, ripples, swell, spray, and foam. Miss will be sailing on a big ship, beautiful, crossing the ocean, dear, entering the Suez canal, passing by other ships on the way. When they pass, dear, the ship's whistle will blow. The others will blow theirs as well. Have you seen Gibraltar? Ah, you will pass by that town of coral too. And after that, a few days later, you will set foot on the land of your ancestors. Its sands are a shining, golden yellow, flowers everywhere, all as miss wishes. It makes people happy. Soon autumn will arrive. Leaves will fall. . . . How happy you will be, looked after by your own brother—a scholar, engineer, well-known, honored, and respected by people. How happy you will be ... if you don't like it, perhaps in one or two years you'll be able to decide your own life. Yes, miss, just one or two years . . ."

"No, dear," the newcomer cut in, "in the Netherlands you will find everything. Everything that miss wants she will be able to find there."

"Mas, is there anything lacking here?"

"No, Ann. You have everything here. You are happy here."

"If the Netherlands has everything," Mama added angrily, "why have Europeans come put here?"

"Don't make my work more difficult, Nyai. Get her clothes ready."

"No, not just her clothes" — Mama began to become irritable — "her jewelry, also her bank book, also the letter of acknowledgment of her father, and the prayers of her mother and husband."

"Mama," Annelies cut in, "does Mama remember Mama's story before. . . ."

"Yes, Ann, what story do you mean?"

"Mama left home forever..."

"Yes, Ann, why?"

"Mama took an old brown tin suitcase."

"Yes, Ann."

"Where is it now, Mama?"

"Stored in the attic, Ann."

"I want to see it."

Mama went to fetch it.

"It's nearly time, miss," the European woman cut in.

Neither Annelies nor I responded. And Mama brought a small, brown, rusted, dented suitcase. Annelies took it quickly.

"With this suitcase, I will go, Mama, my Mama."

"It's too small and horrible. It's not fitting, Ann."

"Mama, it was with this suitcase that Mama left that time resolving never to return. This suitcase weighs too heavily on Mama's memory. Let me take it, Mama, along with the burdensome memories it contains. I will take nothing but the batik kains made by Minke's mother. Only this suitcase, Mama's memories and, Mother's batiks, my wedding clothes, Mama. Put them in. My devoted obeisances to Minke's Mother. I will go Mama. Don't remind yourself of all those things from the past. That which has passed, let it pass away, my Mama, my darling Mama."

"What do you mean, Ann?"

"Like Mama before, Mama, I too will never return home."

"Ann, Annelies, my darling child," cried Mama and she embraced my wife. "It's not that Mama didn't try, Ann, it's not that I didn't defend you, child. ..."

Mama sank into remorseful sobbing. So did I.

"We both did all we could, Ann," I added.

"Don't, don't cry, Mama, Mas; I still have a request, Mama, don't cry."

"Tell us, Ann, tell us." Mama began to wail.

"Mama, give me a little sister, Mama, a little sister, who will always be sweet to you..."

Mama wailed even more. "... so sweet, Mama., not causing you trouble like this daughter of yours .. . until ..."

"Until what, Ann?" ". . . until Mama no longer misses Annelies."

"Ann, Ann, my child, how can you talk so. Forgive us that we could not defend you, forgive us, forgive, forgive."

"Mas, we were happy together?"

"Of course, Ann."

"Remember only that happiness, Mas, nothing else."

"Come on!" shouted out an Indo from the door. "We're two minutes late already."

"Come, dear, miss," the European woman guided Annelies.

Annelies at once submerged into muteness and disinterest.

Her momentary dignity suddenly disappeared. She walked slowly out of the room and down the stairs, under the guidance of the European. Her body seemed so broken and exhausted.

Mama and I ran up to support her, to take over from the woman. But the Indo man and the European woman stopped us.

Marechaussee had congregated at the bottom of the stairs.

And we were kept away! So we were only able to watch our beloved Annelies led away like a cow, step by step.

Perhaps this was how Mama's mother felt when she was treated that way by Mama because she was unable to defend Mama from Mellema. But how did Annelies feel? Was it true she had let go of everything, her own feelings too?

I no longer knew anything. Suddenly I heard the sound of my own crying. Mother, your son had been defeated. Your beloved son did not run, Mother; he is no criminal, even though he's proven incapable of defending his own wife, your daughter-inlaw. Is this how weak a Native is in the face of Europeans? Europe, you, my teacher, is this the manner of your deeds? So that even my wife, who knows so little about you, lost all belief in her little world—a world incapable of providing security even for her. Just one person.

I called after her. Annelies didn't answer, nor look back.

"I'll be following soon," I shouted.

No answer, no look back.

"I too, Ann; have courage, Ann!" called out Mama, her voice hoarse, almost unable to escape from her throat.

Again no answer, no look back.

The gate was opened. A government carriage was waiting, hemmed in on either side by mounted Marechaussee. Mama and I weren't allowed past the door.

For a moment we could still see Annelies being helped into the carriage. She still didn't look this way, didn't make a sound.

The door was closed from outside.

The sound of the carriage wheels grinding over the gravel could be faintly heard fading away into the distance, finally disappearing. Annelies was setting sail for where Queen Wilhelmina sat on the throne. Behind the door, we bowed our heads.

"We've been defeated, Mama," I whispered.

"We fought back, child, Nyo, as well and honorably as possible."

Buru Island Prison Camp Spoken, 1973 Written, 1975

Afterword

During the first six or seven years on Buru Island, prisoners were not allowed reading material, except for a few religious texts. To be found with illicitly obtained material could result in severe punishment. One prisoner, while out working in the fields, came across a piece of torn newspaper.

It had been used to wrap nails in and was full of holes. When the prison guards found the newspaper on him, they took him away to the cell block. Three days later his body was found floating in a nearby river, his hands bound behind his back.

Pramoedya Ananta Toer's commitment to literature has clearly survived this hostility to the printed word. Of Javanese descent, he has been writing since the armed struggle for Indonesian independence, which broke out in 1945. Many of his early works were written while languishing in a Dutch prison. He was captured by the Dutch Colonial Army during its attack on Jakarta in 1947, two years after the Revolutionary War started, and was released in 1949. After Indonesia's independence, Pramoedya began an active life in the literary world, producing several novels and many short stories. In the late fifties, he began his serious study of history and lectured in history and journalism at universities and academies in Jakarta. In the sixties, he entered the fierce polemics on the role of literature in society and attacked works that he felt ignored social problems and the political crisis the country was facing. He was a leading member of the People's Cultural Institute, many of whose members were close to the Indonesian Communist party. Pramoedya himself was not a member and did not write in the party's daily newspaper, but rather became the cultural editor for another independent newspaper, Bintang Timur (the Eastern Star), which reprinted many early writings of the pioneers of Indonesian fiction and journalism.

Pramoedya's interest in history continued to flourish and the Eastern Star published many of his articles about the period of Indonesia's national awakening. A part of this historical work included carrying out the research and contemplating the framework for a series of historical novels about the birth of national consciousness in Indonesia. The period to be covered was the turn of the century, 1890 to 1920. With the help of many of his students, a great deal of work was done and material collected.

Then, in September 1965, a coup attempt took place in Indonesia. Disorder and confusion occurred in Jakarta and throughout the country. The coup attempt was blamed on the Indonesian Communist party. The Indonesian army took control to restore order, but in the process almost all center, left-wing, and progressive political groups suffered persecution. It has been estimated that as many as 500,000 or more people were killed in this nationwide purge. Along with thousands of others, Pramoedya was arrested (though even after fourteen years in jail, he was never tried). His library, including all his notes and the results of his research, was burned on the spot. In 1960 the Sukarno government banned his history of the role of the Chinese in Indonesia; in 1966, with the rise of Indonesian McCarthyism, a blanket ban was placed on all his earlier books — a ban that never has been revoked.

It was only eight years later that Pramoedya was able to begin to put down on paper what had been lost in 1965. He had already, each day before roll call, presented an oral version of the novels — to ensure, he says, that the story would not be lost if the chance to produce a manuscript never arrived. In 1975, after two years of writing from memory, he finished his series of novels.

This Earth of Mankind was published in Jakarta as Bumi Manusia a year after Pramoedya's release from Buru Island concentration camp in 1979.

Soon after, its sequel Anak Semua Bangsa (Child of All Nations) was published. Both novels became best sellers in Indonesia, as reviewers hailed Pramoedya's return to the nation's literary life. However, in May 1981, both books were banned in Indonesia. The government accused the books of surreptitiously spreading Marxism-Leninism-surreptitious because, they claimed, the author's great literary dexterity made it impossible to identify actual examples of this Marxism-Leninism. Both the third and fourth volumes of the tetralogy have also now been banned in Indonesia.

In its letter to the prosecutor general calling for a revocation of the ban on This Earth of Mankind, the Jakarta Legal Aid Institute reminded the authorities that it was no longer rational to try to isolate Indonesia from so-called foreign ideologies. This was because free exchanges of ideas came automatically with the social intercourse between nations, the international coming and going of reading materials, the progress in communications technology, and the coming together of persons in the world's cultural centers. Such exchanges keep the world dynamic, generating pressures for change and demands for debate everywhere. They did so to no less an extent one hundred years ago in the colonies of all the European imperial powers.

Max Lane 1991