House of Glass

  There was nothing important discussed in their conversation. He set off again with his old suitcase. One of the coolies offered to carry his bag. He refused and walked off alone in the direction of Kramat. Several times he fixed up the twirl of his mustache. And the suitcase seemed very light, as if it were empty.

  He walked quickly, looking neither to left nor right. He crossed a five-way intersection with one hand holding his suitcase and the other the bottom tip of his sarong. He headed for a building on the right. Without looking at the sign on the building, he went straight inside. In the reception he asked: “Where is Mas Kardi?”

  One of the employees, who looked as if he were of Arab descent, answered: “Which Mas Kardi? We have a Mas Kardi who is a painter. Or do you mean one of the guests?”

  “No, Mas Kardi the manager of the hotel.”

  “There is no Mas Kardi who is manager, Tuan. I manage this hotel.”

  “So where is Mas Kardi? The old manager.”

  “How would I know, Tuan?”

  He seemed confused. He looked around the room and his eyes became fixed on the name of the hotel attached to the room keys. He asked hesitantly: “Isn’t this Hotel Medan?”

  “No, Tuan. It used to be called that. But it came into my hands at an auction.”

  “An auction! Who said it could be auctioned? I never gave anyone the authority to do that!”

  Now it was the hotel owner who was startled. He asked: “Would you perhaps be Raden Mas Minke?” Because there was no answer, he continued: “It seems that you did not see the sign outside, Tuan. Please sit down. Or perhaps you need a room? Please sit down. And welcome back from a place which was no doubt far away.”

  He seemed confused now that he had lost his hotel and lost the room that he prepared for himself in his mind long before he arrived back in Betawi.

  “Neither I nor any of the people working here at the hotel have done any wrong against you, Tuan. I myself was once a member of the Sarekat, Tuan. You can stay here as long as you like. We truly did not know that you were unaware of the auction.”

  The Modern Pitung left the hotel that was no longer his realm, still carrying his dilapidated case and holding the tip of his sarong. He was grinding his teeth and his face was drained of blood. He turned to read the name of the hotel which read, in big letters, HOTEL CAPITOL. You could still read the fading traces of the old paint—HOTEL MADEN—and underneath were the words: ESTABLISHED PRIMARILY FOR THOSE LEAVING FOR THE HAJ.

  Now he walked hesitantly in the direction of Kwitang, turning to the left. Several tens of meters along from the five-way intersection, he stopped to look at the very first house he had ever rented. And across to the right, quite some ways away, and not visible from where he was standing, there stood the hospital complex and the medical school where he had studied for six years.

  Now he hailed a carriage and climbed aboard without bargaining for the fare first. The carriage headed straight for the house of Dr. Sindu Ragil. The front door was closed—there was no private practice there. He climbed down and paid the driver, then walked down the side of the house, where he met the doctor’s wife.

  “Mas, ah, Mas Minke! Don’t be angry. Forgive both of us. We have been warned not to receive any guests during this week.”

  “Who warned you?”

  “Come on, Mas Minke, of course you know who. A thousand pardons, Mas. There is nothing we can do.”

  “Am I on the list of guests that you are not allowed to receive?”

  “It just so happens that is Mas who has arrived.”

  And so the Modern Pitung left the house of Dr. Sindu Ragil, where he often used to visit whenever he was in Betawi. He walked out of the front yard and stood silent for quite a while, holding on to the iron lattice of the front fence of his friend’s house, and he shook his head. His body was wet with sweat and he had not wiped his face.

  He hailed a horse cart and headed for Sawah Besar. He seemed to be lost in thought and did not take any notice of the traffic around him. The horse cart took him to a certain shop. When the horse cart stopped he hesitated because there was no sign on this shop that read MEDAN OFFICE AND SCHOOL SUPPLIES SHOP. And when he saw that there were no books and stationery for sale inside, he was even more startled. The shop now sold various steel products.

  He seemed to be realizing now that a mysterious wall was surrounding him. He ordered the horse cart to go straight on to Gambir Station. Pity on this Modern Pitung. He intended to go home to his house, my home in Buitenzorg.

  There were no reports about how he behaved in the train. And then what had to happen happened.

  It was four o’clock in the afternoon. I was in my study in the house. From the study window, I saw a horse cart stop in front of the house. Then a man in Native clothes climbed down. I recognized him straightaway. It was Raden Mas Minke. He carried his case and walked into the front yard. He no doubt imagined that Princess Kasiruta would be there to greet him. You are mistaken, Modern Pitung, it will be I who greet you.

  I went out to meet him dressed in casual off-duty clothes. He was at the veranda by the time he recognized me.

  “Please come up, Meneer Raden Mas.”

  His face was tense, pale, dry, like paper. In the end I will have my triumph over you, Modern Pitung.

  “Please come in, please. You are here no doubt about the statement.”

  He was trying to keep control of himself. As his paleness disappeared I could see his eyes aflame with anger, his two arms shivered so that he dropped his bag.

  “I am not here to sign anything! I have come home to my own house!”

  “You are mistaken. Let me take you home. You seem to have forgotten that this is not your address. What is your address now?” I saw him bite his lips. The left-hand side of his mustache was drooping now. Perhaps the wax had melted because of the sun.

  “Please come in,” and I descended from the veranda, coming closer to him on the ground.

  “Of course, I am mistaken,” he said, regaining his composure. “It’s just that I was so surprised to find you here, Meneer Pangemanann.”

  “Please come up. You must be thirsty. As it happens my wife is not home, but you need not worry. You must be tired. You can use the guest room.”

  I suddenly recalled the time I had visited here, but our positions as host and guest were reversed then. I quickly added: “We have met before in this house, haven’t we, Meneer Raden Mas? We are not new acquaintances, are we? It’s just that our positions are different now.”

  He swallowed saliva, then: “Thank you, Meneer Pangemanann. With your permission, I shall be off.”

  “Where do you want to go so late in the afternoon?”

  He gave a nod of respect, picked up his case that had fallen to the ground, and left.

  I knew then that I had turned into a sadist. And how great were the costs you pay for becoming a sadist—I felt no regret about what I had done. I had even felt honored to be able to torment him like this. And in the Indies anyone could be a sadist as long as they were among the powerful. But for those who have no power, only punishment awaits them if they indulge. Having tormented him like this made me feel even more important and powerful, and I felt even more disgusted with what I had become.

  Raden Mas Minke would no doubt spend the evening seeking out his old acquaintances. If that was the path he chose, he would be destitute by midnight. I knew that he did not have enough money with him. As soon as he had received the letter from the governor-general ending his exile, he had handed over all his possessions in Ambon to his maid, even the allowance that he had saved, one ringgit per month for five years. The maid, Auntie Marientje, had accompanied him to the ship, crying all the way. When the ship’s whistle finally cried out, she had to be forcibly escorted back to shore. The third and final whistle was accompanied by her hysterical screams. She wailed and cried out over and over as the anchor was hauled in and the ship began to move. People began to disperse and make their way home.

  She
remained there by herself weeping. The ship disappeared from view and so, still sobbing, she made her way back to the house in Benteng Street where Minke used to live. She would start life anew, never to look after the Modern Pitung again.

  So my guess was that he had no more than four ringgit left.

  He shared a taxi to Bandung with four others. He asked to get out in Braga Street. It was already night. He inspected the old Medan building, peeking in through the windows. There were a number of workers from the printers who went in and out. He didn’t recognize any of them. Then he left, walking off in another direction.

  It was ten o’clock. He visited the Frischbotens’ house. He was greeted by the barking of a guard dog and was forced to check the name plate on the fence. It was no longer the Frischbotens’ house.

  Like a bird with a broken wing, he wandered along in a daze until he found an empty bamboo night watchman’s shelter on the side of the road and went inside. . . .

  Alone in a roadside shelter in the middle of the night, he would surely be remembering the past once more. And he would be thinking how miserly his homeland and his people have been to him. He, who had been so famous five years ago, had now been forgotten, thrown away like a piece of rag. He who had lived and could only live through leading his sheep, now there would not even be a single sheep for him to lead.

  Even so, Raden Mas Minke, you are a teacher, a teacher to every person with a European education, because Europe was able to convince me that every person, any person, who had succeeded in what they had set out to do was a teacher who added to humankind’s knowledge and learning. And it is because of your status as such a teacher that I decided to be so lenient toward you. But it was impossible for me to be any more lenient than this, although your departure from this transitory world would have lessened the never-ending effort I had to expend in protecting myself and my job. If you had decided to sign that document this morning, perhaps His Excellency the governor-general would have even offered you a position. But it is too late; the rice is already porridge now.

  It was reported that three days later he traveled in a third-class carriage to Betawi. He did not find what he was looking for in Bandung. Nor in Sukabumi. If he found anything it was just stories of bygone times.

  He sat at the train window, watching the passing scenery chase off into some uncertain world. He was leaving behind him a past full of glories and the farther behind he left them, the more beautiful and poignant they became. Where was his wife, Princess Kasiruta? All he had found was the news that she had been ordered to leave Java for the Molucca Islands and no one could tell him on which of these fifty or so islands she might be found. How solitary was his life now. But he was still young; there was much that he could do yet. But would he be able to do more? Let us watch.

  He got out at Gambir Station. He sat for a long time on the station bench. His suitcase, his single possession, rested on his lap. I don’t know what was inside. Nobody recognized him. He didn’t seem to see anything about him. Perhaps it was only his mind’s eye that was dwelling longingly on past glories that others were already beginning to forget. Yes, how quickly do the people of the tropics forget that even the hardest of bones are destroyed by the tropical humidity.

  Then at last he got up and left the platform, walking slowly like an old man. During the last few days reality had truly been tormenting his soul. It was all more than he was able to bear. So this is the freedom I have prepared for you, Modern Pitung, my teacher!

  He didn’t have the money to hire a carriage this time. He made his way by foot. He walked and walked. His head was bowed, peering toward the ground. It was so moving to see how faithful he was to his old decayed suitcase, which probably didn’t even have anything in it. . . .

  I knew it was unnecessary and excessive to continue the surveillance. Freedom was turning out to be an even more extreme exile for him. But I ordered the police to continue to follow him.

  For several weeks he wandered from market to market. It seemed he had decided that he would avoid any contact with his colleagues, his old friends. Then finally he was taken in by one of his oldest comrades, Goenawan, who had been pushed aside in the Sarekat Islam after Mas Tjokro took over.

  Everyone had believed that these two friends would never get together because of a disagreement that had happened between them six years before. But they were wrong.

  The two men had met in one of the little side streets in old Betawi. It was Goenawan who saw Raden Mas Minke and then watched him for a while. He was walking along when he saw a man with a big luxuriant mustache twirled up at the corners. This man was standing reading a poster that somebody had pasted to a shop wall. He was carrying an old suitcase, wearing a torn calico shirt and scrappy Macao calico trousers too, but he was reading a Dutch-language poster. After he read it, he seemed to pause and think for a moment while his eyes darted left and right without actually seeing anything. Then slowly, he started walking again, walking and walking. He seemed exhausted and sucked of all his strength.

  Out of curiosity, Goenawan followed him. He was sure the man was an educated person going through hard times.

  The mustache had reminded him of Minke in his days of triumph. Goenawan increased his pace to overtake the other man. He stopped fifty meters ahead and stood underneath a tree, waiting.

  Raden Mas Minke was walking very slowly. His face was ashen. He was paying no heed to anything going on about him. Sensing he was being watched, he held his head down. From underneath his forehead he stole a glance at Goenawan, whom he recognized. The person in front of him had not aged at all during the last five years. He pretended not to recognize him and kept on walking slowly.

  Once Minke had passed him, Goenawan followed him from one meter behind. He wasn’t wrong. He walked faster and came up beside Minke: “Mas Minke!” he greeted him slowly without turning to face him. “So you’ve come home from exile?”

  Raden Mas Minke kept on walking, pretending not to hear. No hands have been held out to help me, perhaps that was what he was thinking then. All doors have been closed to me. Is Goenawan here now to rub salt into my wounds? Whether that was what he was really thinking, I will, of course, never know. But that was what his attitude seemed to indicate he was thinking. Perhaps he even thought that Goenawan was another government agent.

  “Where are you staying, Mas?” asked Goenawan without looking at him.

  Raden Mas Minke did not answer, he just coughed several times. It looked as if he might have fallen ill while he had been wandering around Betawi.

  “You look sick and tired, Mas. Where are you staying?”

  Seeing that the man was hesitating, he took Minke’s case, which seemed too light to contain anything. When he touched his former friend’s hand, he could tell that he had a bad fever. He called a carriage and helped the Modern Pitung up aboard before he had a chance to protest.

  Two days later we lost track of him. But as soon as we had ascertained for sure that the man who had helped him was Goenawan, the former head of the Betawi branch of the Sarekat, it was easy to find him again.

  So I found out something about my hero, my teacher. This man who believed so much in his own strength now lived under the protection of another. I would not have believed it if the repeat investigation I ordered had not confirmed it. It was almost an impossibility, but that was what had happened.

  From four different reports the following picture emerged—that is, after I considered all the material and reconstructed events in my mind. It was very true that Raden Mas Minke was ill. As a former medical student, he must have known what his illness was but he refused to see a doctor. He said that his illness was nothing at all and that he would get better once he had rested.

  From what Goenawan told some of his friends, it seemed that the two of them had a certain discussion. It wasn’t clear who began the conversation, but Minke told him: “I have come at the wrong time.”

  “You left us at the wrong time, just when everybody needed your leadershi
p. But you preferred to leave. Wasn’t that the reason for our falling out then?”

  “I don’t think now is the time for an argument,” he answered.

  “Yes, but we should always evaluate our mistakes, even when they took place a long time ago.”

  “Of course, but you forget that the Sarekat agreed to my plans to go abroad.”

  “Because Samadi wanted you out of the way.”

  So the shooting incident in Bandung remained a secret. Suurhof had never opened his mouth about this either. Perhaps even now he did not know who had shot him. And Minke said nothing about this to Goenawan.

  Perhaps he was still not completely sure that Princess Kasiruta was involved in Suurhof’s shooting.

  “That is an unworthy suspicion,” he replied.

  “It is no suspicion. The events that followed speak for themselves. He thought that leading the people would be no more difficult from managing his batik concerns. But it turned out that human beings are not pieces of batik. It was lucky he later realized his mistake. And when he realized this, he let the Sarekat fall into the hands of Mas Tjokro. And the result has been nothing but a lot of unproductive noise.”

  Minke had a personal secret and he would never tell anybody. The pity was that both he and Goenawan thought that the mystery of why the Sarekat had ended up in such a disappointing state and out of their control was hidden in the story that he would not tell.

  How pathetic it was. Minke thought that nobody knew his secret, but it was none other than I myself who knew who the killer was and who wounded De Zweep, and who it was who whispered the order to kill into his wife’s ear.

  It was clear that Minke would not say why he had wanted to leave the Indies then. But I knew the reason. He loved his first child too much. He was prepared to say good-bye to the Sarekat rather than allow its reputation to be sullied because of him. He would take this secret to his grave.