House of Glass

  It wasn’t surprising either that Semaoen never truly understood his own people. He believed too much in the power of European teachings. Unlike Meneer L— and myself, he never fully saw that the peoples of the Indies were not as clear-cut a people as the Europeans. The people here lived in a kind of darkness, enmeshed in the complexities of their world of illusions. Every new thing from Europe that was thrown into that world simply created more chaos and confusion.

  So His Excellency Van Limburg Stirum simply nodded when he was told that Semaoen was the adopted child of a European, an expert in Javanese culture.

  His Excellency nodded wisely, while Pangemanann’s headache got worse and worse as he tried to follow all the new developments. His Excellency never really made it clear what it was that the home government wanted during this time of climaxing restlessness in the Indies. Meanwhile Semaoen was still a puzzle. He was like the sun rising over the eastern horizon, with the moon and stars unobstructed by cloud or overcast, while Mas Tjokro and Marco faded. They even seemed reluctant to leave behind a shadow. I was neither sun, nor moon, nor star. I was just a man alone, Pangemanann, who could find no way out.

  The promise of self-government had become the main topic of public debate. The war in Europe had not ended. The cannons of war vomited forth lead and death onto every field of battle. My second boss had departed for America to become a citizen in that land of liberty. And now the American army itself descended into every field of battle to confront the Germans, who had by this time exhausted their wealth and energy. The Americans arrived on the scene to consolidate the old carve-up of the world, joining in the effort to extinguish the German lust to expand their colonial territories.

  While here in Betawi, all the senior colonial officials, including myself, gathered at Tanjung Perak harbor to give an impressive send-off to the Indies delegation departing to the Netherlands to officially accept the promise of self-government directly from the government of the Kingdom of the Netherlands.

  I myself could feel how disappointed Mas Tjokro must have been not to be among those invited. There were only two representatives from Native organizations invited. These were Sewoyo, the general secretary of the Boedi Oetomo, and Abdoel Moeis from Sarekat Islam. So these were the only two Native organizations the Government smiled upon. And I knew too that Semaoen and Marco would harden their attitude not only toward the government but also toward Mas Tjokro, the emperor without a crown.

  Cannons boomed in salute as the ship departed. The delegation, bedecked in sashes of royal-yellow silk, waved good-bye from the deck. Except for one, they all wore European clothes. The exception was Mas Sewoyo. But he too waved good-bye. And it was that hand too that in less than a month would be held out to accept the Netherlands’ promise.

  It had been Marco and his friends, then Semaoen and his friends, who had worked so hard to mobilize the S-J axis, but it would be Sewoyo who would receive the reward. But the two of them had no ambitions for that kind of reward; in fact the thought disgusted them. Meanwhile, Tomo buried himself in his medical work at a mission hospital in the small and barren district town of Blitar, and busied himself in an affair with one of his nurses, a Eurasian.

  And I myself?

  I left Tanjung Perak in a car. When the driver asked where I wanted to go, I didn’t answer. I was becoming more and more confused. The political situation had changed. I couldn’t keep up with it. There were new developments each day flowing on from earlier developments which had already left me behind. What would become of me? Was it enough to drown all my worries in whiskey?

  Suddenly my thoughts turned to my wife and children, who had not sent me a letter for such a very long time.

  “Where to, Tuan?” the driver asked once more.

  Perhaps I should write to them and send them my photograph.

  “To the Marijke Photograph Studio.”

  “Very well, Tuan.”

  The car stopped in the retail section in Kotta.

  The owner of the shop was a very old European, perhaps already in his seventies. He invited me into the makeup room. I was so shocked to see myself in the mirror. I had never realized and never felt that my cheeks sagged so much. My hair had turned white, even my eyebrows and eyelashes. My eyes were adorned underneath by darkening crescents. The eyes themselves were sunken. There were more and more chicken-claw wrinkles spreading out at their corners. How quickly I had aged. Neither my wife nor my children would recognize me anymore, except to know how I had degenerated. No, I would not have my photo taken.

  Once outside the shop, I jumped into the car. How close I was to death, and I had always considered myself to be young, clever, of course, undefeatable, with an impressive personality, and able to manipulate whomever I liked.

  I don’t know why I began to think of Raden Mas Minke. I ordered the driver to take me to a florist. I asked them to make me up a wreath straightaway, without any ribbon or message. And I ordered my driver to take me to Karet.

  Those others had set sail for the Netherlands to accept a promise from the government itself and I—I made my way to a cemetery. I, who had so quickly aged like this, was not considered an appropriate person to participate in this self-government. I, who had done so much for the government. I, who would now reap only the bitter dregs of all this. And how many years did I have left? Yes, how many years? Was not I, somebody recognized as an expert on colonial affairs, qualified to sit in any new government—even if just as an adviser?

  You are jealous of Sewoyo, Pangemanann, you are envious, like a little schoolboy envious of another boy’s candy.

  I entered the cemetery alone. I took no notice of the caretaker, and he himself drew back. I laid the wreath against the northern headstone, because he had been buried a Moslem. I stared at this simple grave—bare brown earth with fat clumps of creeping grass here and there. There was no leafy shade sheltering this grave. No writing or carving on the gravestone to say who was buried there. And there were no signs of the wreath I had laid here that first time.

  You sleep peacefully here, teacher! How simple is death. And we will all meet in the peace of the universe of death, whether a king or his slave, whether executioner or victim, whether Rientje de Roo or the most powerful of emperors. How simple was death. De Lange had chosen death. How many more years will it be before I join you, teacher? But I want to achieve something. Something!

  My imagination tried to pierce through the mound of dirt down into the grave pit itself. But my imagination was dead, it would not function. Instead, the dried flower petals scattered upon the grass finally registered in my vision. It seemed someone else had sent flowers.

  I raised my head to look around and called the caretaker, who was waiting in the distance.

  He was waiting to be asked to recite a prayer but I asked him instead: “Has anyone sent flowers to this grave?”

  “Yes, Tuan.”

  “Who was it?”

  “People from close by here, Tuan. Jamiatul Khair people, Tuan.”

  Jamiatul Khair. So there are still those who love him. Jamiatul Khair. What kind of name was that? I seemed to remember it from somewhere.

  “You don’t want me to read the Yasin Verses, Tuan?”

  “Yes, recite them.”

  He recited a prayer that I could not understand at all. After he had finished he looked at me. No, I would not give you a single cent, just as the government had given me no part at all in its self-government project.

  The driver took me wherever I wanted to go. He drove me around Betawi; then when I was ready he took me back to Buitenzorg.

  Once again my devoted maid was there to greet me, faithfully copying the old ways of Paulette and the children. Ah, what is the point of telling you about this completely ruined household of mine?

  Life did not return to what it had been, because there was a growing emptiness inside me. All that I was ever likely to get as compensation for what I had lost was a pension. A pension! That’s it! I could not even see myself in the new g
overnment. How miserly was fate with me. I who knew everything about the Native organizations!

  And Cor Oosterhof’s success along the S-J line in strengthening the position of the young generation of the Sarekat Islam did not change the Indies government’s or the Netherlands government’s views. So I had begun to lose interest in reading the papers and magazines. My loss of interest in my work was very profound, even though I knew that a degenerating old person like me always associated loss of interest in work with the approach of death. Zest for work was a sign of energy and life. While people are happy at their work, they will want to live; and when people no longer have the desire to work they are in fact shaking hands with death. Cor Oosterhof’s enthusiastic reports no longer interested me. Was it true that death was already shaking hands with me? Was it true that I would end up dying before I was sixty? How fast life passes. How fast.

  I even left untouched both the press and the official reports about the Indies delegation’s activities in the Netherlands. None of it was of any relevance to me anymore.

  All that was left for me now was the discipline of recording my thoughts for posterity in these notes.

  Ah, you, Pangemanann with the double n, you used to laugh at the idea that Minke might have thought of himself as a possible third president of Asia after Sun Yat-sen and Aguinaldo. It turns out that it was you who had unconsciously harbored the dream of such a thing being bestowed upon you by the government. Together with Meneer L— you used to laugh at the Natives, who you thought had been cowed and humiliated by their own illusions. And what was the reality now? Wasn’t it true that now in your old age you are being turned mad by your own illusions, just because of the promise of some colonial power?

  The Indies delegation’s return from the Netherlands maddened me even more. I felt that I had been unjustly pushed aside. I was closer to His Excellency the governor-general than they, so why was it people so far removed from him who were getting his attention now? What was it that I was lacking? Was it just because I was prematurely aging? And anyway, it was my time with the government that had done that to me. Was it right that a person as old as I should be shedding tears of protest, tears I knew would be of no avail at all?

  Then when I fell ill again, it turned out that my long absence at the office was hardly noticed at all. It was clear that my skills were no longer needed. My boss had visited me once in the hospital and said he prayed for my recovery. My other colleagues too. How lonely it was when in your old age you realized nobody needed you.

  A letter from my son Mark that reported that both my older sons had failed their studies and had joined the British army just added to the pain of my sorrows. What was there left for me to hope for? My children preferred to live in Europe and to be Europeans. I was left here by myself, looked after by a village girl. And I had never even asked my maid who her parents were or where she was born. She stayed with me out of pity . . . pity . . . pity, not the compassion of love. This was a humiliation for anyone with self-respect . . . self-respect . . . did I have any self-respect left after all the things I had done . . . ?

  All I had was a letter from Mark, just a letter, nothing more. And even then it mentioned nothing about his mother, about Paulette, the woman who had been beside me during all the happy times of my youth . . . yes, just a letter. There was no news of Dede. And you, daughter, what has happened with you? Are you married? You have never said. Do you have children yet? You are silent. Perhaps all of you have conspired to throw off your family name, revolted by your Native heritage, a heritage that gave you nothing that you could depend upon.

  All that was left to me in this emptiness and loneliness were my memories of the church. If I am ever able to get up from this sickbed, I thought to myself, then on that fine, clear day, I will go to the church, I will make a full confession of all my sins, and I will repent. While I was in my current state I felt that it would be too embarrassing to summon a priest. Using whatever strength I had left, I would clear the clutter that was inside me. Often now my lips pronounced the Paternoster and Ave just as I and my wife used to do together when we prayed with the rosary. I would hold on. Yes, I would hold on.

  “Do you know what a rosary is?” I asked my maid when she came to see me once and while she was putting some fruit onto the table.

  “What is a rosary, Tuan?”

  “Like a necklace, for praying.”

  “You mean a tasbih.”

  “Perhaps you call it a tasbih. We call it a rosary. Fetch it from my wardrobe, yes, and bring it here to me.”

  I gave her the key to my wardrobe. I knew she wouldn’t open the drawer where I kept my revolver. I had to trust her. And the next day she arrived with more fruit and my rosary.

  As soon as she gave it to me, I kissed the silver cross that hung at its end. And that cross somehow seemed to give some peace within. My whole self surrendered as it had once done in the past. My nerves began to relax. And because of that cross, I gradually began to get my health back. Fifteen days later I was discharged from the hospital. And so once again I was completely dependent on my maid.

  My soul was at peace now. I worried about nothing, I hoped for nothing, there was nothing that I desired anymore. The cross had helped me make peace with myself, had neutralized my passions and all their consequences, which had so often filled me with tension and anxiety. And so I had prepared myself to enter eternal peace, that place where all people finally find themselves, of their own will or otherwise.

  After resting for a week, I had fully regained my health. Some supernatural power forced me out of my house and back to the office. The welcome back was very cool. I had to accept this as a reality. The labor and thoughts of Pangemanann were truly no longer needed here. Very well, then. God Almighty would do with me as He wished.

  I stood at the window in my office staring out at the gardens. An office boy was cleaning up my office, which had been abandoned for these last three months. The head of housekeeping came in with two helpers and took away the pile of newspapers and magazines that I should have been studying.

  He said good morning to me, and immediately handed over a pile of the latest editions.

  “I see you don’t need a drink, Meneer,” he began.

  “You’re not mistaken, Meneer Herschenbrock. Since this illness I have given up drink.”

  “Congratulations, Meneer,” he said, holding out his hand.

  I shook hands with him, even though I knew he wasn’t truly sincere. He had come to see me hoping that there would be the opportunity to join with me in a drink.

  “You can take a drink by yourself, Meneer Herschenbrock.”

  “I am not so keen either, Meneer.”

  Alone in this room where De Lange had taken his own life, my thoughts turned more and more to death. Why was I always thinking about death? You are alive, aren’t you, Jacques? As a living being, think then about life, not death. Your mind works. Not to use it would be a violation of the laws of life. Come on, revive your enthusiasm for work! Isn’t enthusiasm for work a sign of life, and lack of interest in working a sign of the approach of death? You can live a lot longer yet if you can revive your old enthusiasm for work.

  And so I sat down again and began opening the newspapers, the latest editions.

  The war in Europe had suddenly come to an end. Germany was defeated. A great event, there was no doubt about that, a great historical event, but it did not move me in any way. Perhaps my emotions were no longer capable of being moved by anything. Perhaps my heart was now slippery flat, and whatever touched it now would just slide off into nothingness.

  And so I turned up at work each day just to turn mechanically the pages of the newspapers. But none of what I read moved me at all. How long would this go on? Until the day, no doubt, when I would receive a letter telling me I would have to leave this office. I had lost all interest in this office upon which the eyes of all the Indies were focused. It had lost all its greatness and awe for me. Power no longer had the same attraction it o
nce had.

  The news from the Netherlands was that a parliament would be established in the Indies. And that the Natives would join in governing, because they would help make the laws. Huh! What was the use of a parliament that sat below the government itself? Even if every Native organization ended up with representatives in it. What did I care now anyway!

  I was not given any new assignments. His Excellency Governor-General Van Limburg Stirum maintained his policy of using political means only. Good, well, it meant that my work here was indeed at an end. Cor Oorsterhof would continue operations without me, because that was now how he made a living. One day he would be wiped from the face of the earth too, just like those who had gone before him.

  Then the reports about the parliament faded away and were replaced by discussion of a volksraad, an advisory council of people’s representatives. All the papers discussed what its significance was and how it would work and who would sit on it and why it was a good thing for the Indies. It turned out that the royal government of the Netherlands had its own interpretation of what self-government meant. Just a volksraad, a pseudo-parliament.

  I laughed to myself. I had put too much store in that promise they made during the war. Now that the war was over they had decided to betray their promise. Why had I allowed myself to daydream about what role I might play in it all?

  But more amazing were the developments among the Native organizations. No less than with myself, ambitious dreams were running amok among the leadership of these organizations. All of them were social organizations but now—without waiting for the decisions of their congresses or conferences—they all issued statements declaring themselves to be political organizations in the hope of gaining the honor of being able to send representatives to the volksraad.