House of Glass

  The warmth of the whiskey was starting to affect my spirits. I took out a pair of scissors and cut the ribbon around the file. There weren’t many papers inside. There was a note about the freezing of all the assets belonging to the Central SDI under the control of Raden Mas Minke. This included the building in Bandung where Medan was published and all assets, movable or unmovable. The latter included the workers’ houses. The rest included all monies, whether in bank accounts or not, the Medan kiosks in Bandung, Buitenzorg, Betawi, and the other big towns of Java, the stationery, writing utensils, and office equipment business in Betawi, the Medan hotel in Kramat Street in Betawi, and all the contents of Raden Mas Minke’s house in Buitenzorg. The company set up by the Solo Branch of the SDI to import raw materials for batik making from Germany and England was also frozen. After reading all that, I went through the papers again and again. There was nothing to indicate that any of this had been done under court order. It was all done outside the law.

  I fell into reflection. I couldn’t stop thinking, how could Europeans, whose sense of the law is so deep, behave like forest outlaws? If it had been one of the Asian peoples who had done such a thing, I could have understood because their rulers’ own capricious, despotic, and lawless behavior meant that Asians had lost all sense of their rights. What they had done to Minke was truly the act of forest outlaws. This was not Europe! And the victim was not even allowed to defend himself! And even before all this, they had stolen his freedom, his liberty, even though in law he had the right to defend himself before the White Courts; he had forum privilegiatum.

  Ah, why let all this bother me? Wasn’t I myself involved in helping to get rid of Raden Mas Minke?

  I gulped down what was left in the bottle of whiskey.

  His exile had been carried out based on political considerations. There was proof that the person accused had acted against the interests of the government, the governor-general and his authority. And Raden Mas Minke had indeed done all this through his pronouncements in Medan. But I had never guessed that they had seized all his property. My conscience could not accept that. No! with precedents like this, there could be no more guarantee of the security of private property. Anybody could be robbed the same way. There would no longer be the certainty of the rule of law. It was back to barbarism. In the end nobody would have rights over their life or their own bodies.

  Why should I let all this worry me? It hasn’t hurt me, has it? But one day such things could befall you, your wife, or your children.

  Hush! Whose side was I on? Did not I myself have the right to rob others while I remained a part of this colonial setup?

  I was startled to hear myself give out a cackling laugh. Join in and become a part of colonial power, and I will have the right to do whatever I like to the Natives, even my fellow countrymen up in the North Celebes. Why was I hesitating? Long life to Her Majesty!

  I grabbed the bottle again. It was empty. I grabbed the glass. Empty too. Frits, oh, Frits, get me another bottle. But he would not come back. And my laughter cackled on of its own accord.

  I went on reading all the papers. I went over and over them. Again and again. All Minke’s property had been frozen on the orders of the commission. And the head of that commission—De Lange, Meneer De Lange, who, a few days earlier—had it been a week?—was sprawled out on the floor beside this table, blood oozing from the pores in his skin and his mouth. Why did you do it, De Lange? Couldn’t you stand your conscience eating away at you, Meneer De Lange?

  I examined the papers again. I studied the signature of the expert I had replaced. There were a few places where there were signs he had been shaking when he signed his name, unable to face his conscience, perhaps? He would have known that all the law that he had studied in university disintegrated into dust when he implemented these acts. Was that the reason you killed yourself, De Lange? Idiot. There was no reason why you shouldn’t have been prepared to become a little rotten. Then I wouldn’t have had to come up here to replace you. It doesn’t surprise me that the detectives have been unable to discover the secret of your death. You chose your conscience rather than your life. Idiot. So all your struggles to become a lawyer were wasted, De Lange.

  The bell signaling that the office was about to close rang out. I locked the file in the cabinet. I locked the window and shutters myself, then the door. I pocketed the key to take it home in accordance with regulations. I did not hand it over to the housekeeper, as was also in accordance with regulations.

  “Meneer Knor,” I said, giving an order, “arrange a car for me and a good driver. I have some business.”

  The car raced down toward Betawi. Fast! Faster! I must not waste what remains of my life without enjoying its sweeter pleasures. I went straight to police headquarters. No, Meneer Commandant, I do not want to see you.

  “You can take the car back now,” I told the driver. He nodded respectfully and obediently and climbed back aboard the vehicle, which then disappeared in its cloud of dust and smoke. I went inside. I went straight to the telephone and ordered a taxi.

  I was in the taxi now! “Drive slowly,” I ordered the driver. “To Kwitang.”

  The door to Rientje de Roo’s pavilion was not closed. As soon as the car stopped at the foot of the veranda, I jumped out and went inside. The young girl was just leaving her room carrying her bag.

  “Meneer Pangemanann,” she greeted me. “But I am leaving.”

  “Godverdomme!” I swore. “That is not the way to greet me.”

  “I have to go to Bandung. I have already called a taxi.”

  “What is there in Bandung that is more important than me?”

  “It’s not that, Meneer Pangemanann. Don’t be angry. I promised to visit Robert.”

  “Robert Suurhof? I’ll shoot him like a cur. Don’t lie to me, I know you have a customer tonight.” She gazed at me with her big eyes, hiding behind her eyelashes.

  Desire spread through all the glands in my body to the tips of my nerves, as if it were twenty-five years ago. I grabbed the young girl around the waist. “To the devil with those others. Come with me.”

  I dragged her outside and she locked the door. We climbed aboard the taxi. And Rientje De Roo sat beside me, silent. She was too frightened to even glance at me.

  To hell with what people will think. “Tanah Abang Heights!” I told the driver.

  “To Panggung, Tuan?” asked the driver.

  “Yes, Panggung,” I answered abruptly. To Rientje de Roo: “Have you ever been to Panggung?”

  “No.”

  “You’re lying. If you didn’t know what it was, you would have asked just now.”

  She didn’t say a word. Perhaps she thought that she was about to be involved in some police case. The taxi headed straight to Panggung, a huge timber two-storied house in Tanah Abang Heights, the pleasure house of a Chinese lieutenant.

  There were already many people there. There were not just Chinese there enjoying themselves, but Europeans as well. Lieutenant Swie welcomed me, asking: “I’m surprised, Commissioner Pangemanann, you have brought Rientje here with you on an inspection.”

  “All under control, Babah Swie,” I answered drily.

  “Enjoy yourself, Tuan,” and he left us.

  Rientje’s eyes were still full of wild suspicions. I grabbed her around the waist and took her over to the cashier.

  “Ten half-guilder chits, Bah!”

  Rientje glanced at me but did not open her mouth. She thought she had been brought here on police business. That was funny. What was the difference between police and criminal business as long as nobody made any accusations and nothing ever came to court?

  I took the ten chits, made from some kind of bone, with red Chinese writing on them whose meaning I did not understand, and said to Rientje: “I bet you can get rid of these ten chits in ten minutes.”

  She wouldn’t speak. She took the chits without a word.

  I embraced her round the waist and took her over to the roulette table. She looke
d pale, this girl no older than my youngest. Even so, it did not detract from her beauty or allure. And I could see many eyes gazing at her full of lust—almost all Chinese, gamblers and adventurers.

  “Stay here. Use up all these chits. I will come back later.” It gave her no joy to hold those chits. And I could fully understand her unease.

  So I left the roulette area, passing by and weaving my way through many old pigtailed Chinese as well as young ones, with their hair cut short, slick with hair oil and neatly combed. Most of them moved aside to let me through.

  I found a rattan chair in a corner, where I could sit down and watch Rientje’s every move from afar. But all I could see at first were all the people who were peering at me. Nobody approached Rientje. The young prostitute herself was too frightened to look around her. She kept her head bowed down all the time. She was far too conscious that she was being observed by a police commissioner. And the police commissioner himself also knew only too well that he had been retired and was no longer really a policeman.

  She lost her first chit and started to bet with a second one.

  “Tuan Commissioner.” The old pigtailed Chinese man came up to me, bowing all the time and pressing his two hands to his chest in a gesture of respect, so that his sleeve fell back to his elbow exposing his arm, which was nothing but skin and bone. “I haven’t seen you for some time, Tuan Commissioner,” he smiled, and while he may have grown terribly skinny in his old age, his teeth were without imperfection. “I am so happy to see you sitting here, Tuan. Do you need a drink of arak? There’s no harm in giving it the occasional try, Tuan. You have never tried it, so you don’t believe me.”

  “How many mistresses do you have, Grandfather?”

  “Heh-heh, six, Tuan.”

  “At your age. How old are you?”

  “Eighty years old, Tuan.”

  “Eighty years old with six mistresses. You are a liar, an impostor.”

  He only laughed. His sunken, shriveled cheeks stretched sideways and his eyes disappeared.

  “The Tuan Commissioner is the only one who has ever said that to me.”

  “Very well, bring me the arak.”

  He went away and brought back a small glass on a tray with a raised red dragon painted on it, as if from wax.

  “In one gulp, Tuan, just like any other liquor.”

  I gulped it down without another thought. It wasn’t very strong, a bit slow, but left behind a stronger than usual taste. The old man stood there waiting. And I knew he was waiting for payment for the arak. I groped about in my pocket.

  “First try, Tuan, no charge,” and he took out several keys from his pocket. “Of course, Tuan, you will need one of these.”

  He laid out the keys on the palm of his hand. Each one had a small bone button with a number on it. My hand flashed out and seized one.

  “For that, Tuan, you do indeed have to pay. Five guilders, Tuan, until dawn.”

  He took his money and paid no heed to me after that. And I could see that Rientje had lost another chit. Perhaps she was bankrupt already. I went over to get her. Even more eyes now looked in my direction. The men playing cards or mahjong, the upper class’s prostitutes—Chinese, Eurasian, and Native.

  Rientje was still busy playing roulette. There were fifty chits piled in front of her—twenty-five guilders. She won another ten chits.

  “That’s enough, Rientje. Let’s go.”

  She gathered together all her chits and we went to the cashier to cash them in for thirty guilders, about half the monthly cost of my children’s education in the Netherlands. I didn’t believe this child could be so lucky. Those bandits running the roulette made sure she won as a plan to get all my money later on.

  “It’s all for you, Rientje.”

  For the first time there was puzzlement in her eyes, and she still did not speak. She put the thirty guilders in her bag and stood waiting for my orders. Once again I seized her around the waist and I took her up the stairs to the next floor. “We’ll go up, Rientje.”

  As she stepped onto the first stair on the way up, she looked at me calmly as if she couldn’t believe that somebody who had just a few days ago treated her as his own daughter was now inviting her up to a room that she usually entered with other men, anyone who was able to pay.

  Not the slightest sound came from the carpeted stairs as we climbed them. On the next floor, a long carpet took people to the rooms they desired. Here it was peaceful and quiet like on the top of a mountain. Here and there were open windows, and if you happened to glance down you could see the lights of Tanah Abang flickering like stars that shone on earth instead of in the sky. And the lights from the passing vehicles were like fireflies rushing through the darkness.

  I gave her the key. She took it silently and went straight to the door with the same number.

  See, I can do this too. . . .

  * * *

  The next day I had not long been at my desk when Monsieur R— came in. He said good morning and sat down in front of my desk.

  “The first thing I want to do today is say how much I respect your abilities, Meneer. You have been paying quite a bit of attention to things that I have ignored. You have put aside time to read the Malay stories that the Chinese writers are publishing. Lie K— H— is from the older generation. Did you know he was a Protestant?” I shook my head. “Self-educated. He reads a lot, he has a lot to say. But I am not convinced that he has been influenced much by the awakening in China. Most of the experts say that any Chinese who has given up the religion of his ancestors would not be interested in what was happening in China.”

  “Perhaps. Maybe you could say that giving up the old religion and beliefs also means forgetting the country of your ancestors, but I am not convinced of that either, Monsieur. As far as Lie K— H— is concerned, I have to admit I haven’t studied him in depth. There are about fourteen of these new Chinese writers. Their stories are half journalistic, a bit like elongated newspaper reports, very much like what the Eurasians have been writing, but in Dutch as well as Malay.”

  “So you think most of these Chinese are following the lead of the Eurasian writers?”

  I had to agree with what he said.

  “And what about the Natives, Meneer Pangemanann? You would know these even better?”

  “The Natives haven’t begun writing yet, Monsieur, at least not in the European sense, in Malay or Dutch, let alone their mother tongues. If there are one or two, they are exceptions. Haji Moelek’s The Tale of Siti Aini, for example, and Raden Mas Minke’s Nyai Permana. But they are not representative.”

  “So you think that means that there is no awakening taking place among the Natives? And isn’t Haji Moelek a Eurasian anyway?” he asked, egging me on.

  I realized that he was testing my own knowledge of what was happening among the Natives. This was clearly something that could affect my position here. I launched forth with all sorts of evidence to show that the Indies Natives on Java were already beginning to rise up, had already placed time bombs in all the towns of Java that could explode at any moment, setting the Indies aflame.

  That, I said, was the reason that Raden Mas Minke was exiled, to get rid of the initiator, the pioneer of a national awakening. He was dangerous! He himself did not understand that what he was doing was dangerous. The government was fortunate that it was dealing with someone who did not understand the possible consequences of his actions.

  He listened to me in the same way that I listened to Meneer L— when he spoke about the Javanese. He looked at me with a clear face as I spoke, like a school student who was learning for the first time one of the mysterious secrets of nature.

  “You have not said a single word that differs from what Meneer De Lange used to say. Did you know him?”

  “No, Meneer.”

  “It’s a pity that he died. You and he would have been able to work together well. Two people, but one opinion, and one assessment.”

  It was a state secret that De Lange had done no mor
e than study my own reports. And I think he also knew that this was the case, but was testing me to see how solid I was in keeping such secrets. Here in the Algemeene Secretariat it seemed that I was once again stuck in a mudhole where there were many even more dangerous traps awaiting me.

  “So it is your opinion that there are two peoples awakening here in the Indies—the Chinese and the Natives?” he asked.

  “Exactly right.”

  “Two kinds of awakening. Both of them in the Indies where there is only one power—the Netherlands Indies government. It is your opinion that this movement led by Raden Mas Minke has planted time bombs in all the towns of Java. In other words, the government is in great danger. Perhaps you could say something more about the awakening of the Chinese?”

  “Now it is Meneer’s turn to give his opinion,” I said.

  And with that, the morning’s conversation, where he had been feeling out my opinions, came to an end. He went back to his office. But I knew that he would be back again with another problem sooner or later. I had to be careful not to give an answer that could be used against me at some later moment. My appointment as an expert adviser to the Algemeene Secretariat meant that my opinions would be used in solving or reviewing all sorts of problems.

  Monsieur R— came back with a new file, also sealed. In his usual friendly manner and hiding his nervousness, he spoke in his usual French: “Nobody else may read these documents, only yourself, and whoever you approve.”

  “An honor,” I said, no less politely.

  “Why do you leave the door open?”

  “I can work better with the fresh breeze coming in and out like this, Monsieur.”

  “Very well, if that is your custom, but make sure you are extra vigilant about who comes into this office. Be especially careful with your papers. Not even a single sheet must ever be lost.”

  There was no indication of who sent the file or to whom it was sent, just as was the case with the first file. There were no postage stamps. There was nothing to show from where it had been sent. The seal was marked with a simple W with a crown, the symbol of Her Majesty’s rule in the Indies.