“A Javanese knight with just a leather belt and destar!”
“A fighting cock who can’t crow!”
“Let him stay here like this until tomorrow, until the director makes his inspection. Everyone agree?”
“Agreeee!!!!” they all shouted.
The lone European-dressed boy came up to me and tried to grab my hand. That was too much. Then I thought I saw the early signs of an impending attack. I dived, flinging my legs upward. I felt my toes jab into his throat. He swayed, spitting onto the floor. Two teeth and some blood came out.
The shouting got wilder and wilder.
“Adam’s run amok!”
I suddenly decided to fight rather than be ashamed. I excused my two hands and began my attack.
“Come on, gentlemen, that’s enough,” the office clerk cried out. “No more, that’s enough. Otherwise I’ll call in the director.”
“Report! Yes, go on and report! Our hero has gone wild.”
“Yes, report him!”
They began to surround me.
“Ayoh! try it!” I shouted.
And they didn’t jump on me. It appeared they didn’t mean me any real harm, they were just playing around with me. No one came forward. They just laughed. And the now-tested rooster, myself, began crowing again: “So this is how educated people behave?” And they went quiet. “Is this what your ancestors taught you?”
“Shut up! Leave our ancestors out of it.”
“Do you all think you’re better than they were?”
Someone threw me my batik sarong. I slowly wrapped it around my waist, my eyes vigilant.
“In front of villagers you all behave like intellectuals. But villagers are more civilized than you!” I kept on crowing.
Remaining vigilant, especially as regards the now toothless Indo, I walked over to my bed. No one tried to stop me. The tumult had died down.
“God’s own Satan isn’t as big a bastard as any one of you,” I kept on crowing, egged on by their silence, “go on, get away, all of you.” By now I was growling.
No one said anything. They just stood there watching me, amazed at my outrageous behavior. But they didn’t go away.
I dressed again, acting as if I were some kind of aristocrat. I pushed all my things under the bed. I set the painting in its wine-red velvet cover, and wrapped in turn in calico, on my pillow.
The office clerk had disappeared. He was probably used to these kinds of goings-on. He won’t report anything. Except to the people in his village, and to his wife.
I sat on my bed. I looked around at them with a challenging gaze. But they were all smiling now. One by one they told me their names. It was clear there’d be no more fighting. It seems it was all some kind of crude initiation game. And they were sorry they’d gone too far.
Don’t try playing rough like that again, I challenged them in my heart. Don’t try humiliating this crummy-looking old dented tin suitcase. Its contents are worth more than all of you put together, you candidate doctors! You must get to know me first, as I must get to know you. Inside that suitcase are stored my best thoughts: notes, letters, including letters from friends and love letters, newspaper clippings, my two manuscripts about the loss of my wife, Annelies, and the experiences Nyai Ontosoroh and I had with the Dutch authorities—perhaps more than four pounds altogether. Have any of you ever owned a treasure as weighty as that? And important letters from other people too—will you ever own anything like this? And then there are the letters from Mother. I don’t believe any of you have a mother like my mother. And I don’t believe any of you have had experiences such as I have experienced and have summarized in my writings. All of you, candidate gobblers-up of government wages, candidate priyayi…
No one was interested in bothering me anymore, so it became my duty to start establishing better relations: “I’m sorry I knocked out two of your teeth.”
They laughed. Ignoring them all, I started moving my clothes into a wardrobe. And they watched every single piece of clothing as if I were about to start a magical performance.
“What he’s got on are his only Javanese clothes,” someone noticed.
“Perhaps he’s legally Dutch, a londo godong.” Someone else offered his opinion.
“He owns only European clothes!”
I pretended not to hear. Now out came my papers and books.
I put the empty suitcase and bag on top of the wardrobe.
“Ahai!” came a high-pitched shout.
I wheeled around. My painting had emerged into public view. And it quickly traveled from hand to hand to the person farthest away.
“Flower of the Century’s End!” somebody read from underneath the picture.
My blood boiled as I saw my painting handled by these people who had not asked my permission. I took the dagger from the wardrobe, drew it out of its sheath, and cried: “Put it back!”
Everyone went on discussing the painting in the far corner of the room.
“Or shall I let this fly?”
“That’s enough, everyone, put it back,” came an order.
The noise ceased. They all turned to me, and to the dagger in my hand.
“I’ll count to three,” I threatened. “If the picture isn’t put back I’ll let this fly; I don’t care who it hits.”
One pupil, short and skinny, came across and put the picture back in its cover. He frowned: “Yes, Mas, they always go too far. I myself can hardly take it here anymore.”
And I knew from that moment that the two of us would be allies. I watched him as I put the dagger away. He straightened up the picture’s cover, flicking off some flecks of dirt. “Let me introduce myself, Mas; my name is Partotenojo. But they call me Partokleooo,” he said in very bad Dutch, with a heavy Javanese accent. “Mas Partotenojo.”
“They pick on you?” I asked.
“I can’t stand it, I say.”
“Where do you sleep?”
“In the corner over there.”
“Are there rules about where people must sleep?”
“No.”
“Good. You’ll move over here next to me,” I suggested.
“But this bed is taken.”
“He’ll have to move. Tell him.”
Partotenojo, alias Partokleooo, went and fetched the person concerned. He came across, his eyes full of suspicion. “You’re ordering me to change places with Partokleooo?”
“That’s right.”
“You want to be the big shot here?”
“If you and the others want that, yes, I can become the big shot. Any objections? I’ll help you carry across your things. You like picking on Partokleooo too? All that must stop—starting now.”
All the others gathered round again. He complained to them all. Everyone was discussing my instructions. The European-dressed Indo wasn’t there. Perhaps he was taking care of his gums.
“Look, it’s not because I want to be the big shot here that I’ve asked you to move—except if you force me. I don’t like people who play around with other people’s rights.”
They talked things over among themselves. Then, all together, they helped move his and Partokleooo’s things. The lunch bell rang. They all raced off. Only Partokleooo and I were left.
“It’s true what you said, Mas—they’re only intellectuals if compared to village folk. A bunch of barbarians!” He swore. His Dutch was really bad, with a very thick Javanese accent. His accent was both wrong and exaggerated.
“You’re not a graduate?”
“I’m from a teachers’ school, Mas.” He gazed at me, seemingly longing for protection. “Come on, let’s eat.” Seeing I wasn’t ready yet, he asked, “Where did you get that painting, Mas?”
“I got someone to paint it.”
“It’s a beautiful painting. Did you ever meet her?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know her?”
“I knew her well.”
I didn’t understand why he seemed so moved. His eyes seemed to be fixed on some s
pot far away. His lips trembled almost imperceptibly; then the words came out, slow and broken: “I followed the reports about her. I didn’t see all the reports, but enough. It was a terrible story.”
“Yes.”
“You haven’t told me your name yet, Mas.”
“My name is Minke. Let’s eat now.”
He looked at me with those questioning eyes. He followed on behind me.
“No one else need know about the painting,” I said.
“How is she now?”
“She died, Parto.”
“May her soul be received by Allah,” he pronounced, and asked no further questions.
The dining room was full of students from all grades. They all wore Native dress. It was only the Menadonese and Indos who wore European clothes. The Javanese and Sundanese were different only in the kind of destars they wore. There was only one Malay; he wore a songkok and a short sarong. The destars were in the majority.
It looked as though news about the incident in the dormitory had spread quickly. As soon as I entered, all eyes were on me. Here and there people started whispering. I took no notice and sat down with Partokleooo. Just as I sat down, a message boy came in: “Mr. Minke?”
Partokleooo waved him over. He spoke very politely to Partokleooo: “There is someone asking whether a student arrived by ship from Surabaya today.” He held out a torn piece of paper with some writing in pencil on it.
I grabbed quickly before Parto could get a look.
“Yes, that’s me,” I said. “Who is it asking for me?”
Both the messenger and Partokleooo were observing me. And the messenger answered politely: “A Dutchman, a Pure-Blood; he’s talking with the director at the moment.”
“Very well, I’ll come when I’ve finished lunch.”
Partokleooo never tired of staring at me. I think he really wanted to know more about the woman in the painting. But I didn’t pay him any heed.
I didn’t eat much. I’d lost my appetite after the fight. I left the dining room and went straight to the sitting room. The visitor was none other than my journalist friend from De Locomotief, Mr. Ter Haar, whom I’d met on the boat to Semarang a year ago.
“It’s good to meet you again, sir.” Smiling, he held out his hand. He explained that he had just arrived by train from Semarang. He’d received my letter a little time beforehand. He’d gone out to the harbor to meet me but I’d already left by tram for Weltevreden.
He talked on in his usual friendly manner until the director came back and joined us. He introduced himself to me as if he wasn’t the director at all. He asked: “How many pen names have you used?”
I laughed.
“I’m proud to have a student who can write. But your task here is to study. What if you want to write again? Won’t that disturb your studies?”
“Writing, with so many experiences, of the world and of the soul,” my friend defended me, “I think he’ll turn out to be quite an advanced student.”
“Yes, true, but medical school is different. Mr…. so I should use Mr…. ?”
“Minke is fine, sir.”
“So, Mr. Minke, no matter how clever a student is, no matter how rich his experiences have been, he must treat his lessons seriously. Everything must be studied in detail. You must follow things as the second hand follows the seconds. A lost second can mean a lost life. You’ve arrived late too. You’ll have to work hard to catch up.”
“Mr. Director,” began my friend, “if he were to be another couple of days late, it wouldn’t matter, would it? I would like to ask your permission to take him away today. Mr. Minke cannot miss such a great opportunity. What do you think, Mr. Director?”
“Opportunity?”
“Yes. I myself have come up from Semarang to take advantage of the same opportunity, Mr. Director, to meet the Honorable Member of the House of Representatives in the Netherlands, Mr. Engineer H. van Kollewijn.”
“One of my students will meet with a member of parliament?”
“Tonight the God of the Liberals, the Radical God of the Liberals, will be holding an invitation-only meeting in the Harmoni Club,” my friend continued. “Minke can’t miss this opportunity.”
“Nah, just what I said. You haven’t even started your studies yet and your private activities are already intruding. What will happen to your studies later?”
“A visit by the honorable member is a rare event. He is unlikely to be out here even once in every five years, Mr. Director. Mr. Minke will have many days for study.”
“All right, but just this once. Except for holidays.” He gave in. “But have you recovered from your journey?”
“Even tiredness can be overcome with eight hours’ sleep. Isn’t that right?” Now my friend spoke to me.
2
There had not been time to think over and digest all my impressions and experiences of the first part of that day. I did not even have time for an afternoon nap. Everyone in the dormitory was busy trying to figure out the identity of the woman in my painting. The person who had stuck the news clipping on my suitcase tried to question me. Perhaps Partokleooo had told him what I had said about her.
That afternoon, they all started to make friends and carefully sought an opportunity to ask. The Indo, too, whose name was Wilam (his official name—his unofficial name was William Merry-weather). He was the son of an English plantation owner who had been killed by the Pitung gang in an attack on his plantation. His mother, a beauty from Cicurug—perhaps a relative of Nyai Dasima—was kidnapped by the gang. She was only freed after they were finally smashed by the army. And she brought home with her a new son.
I didn’t answer any of their questions, except with a smile. I began to realize that among these educated Natives there were the beginnings of an appreciation of the beauty of the European face.
After it was announced that the School Council had decided to allow me to skip the first two years of preparatory classes, the students all felt that the harsh treatment they had meted out to me had been fair.
My friend Mr. Ter Haar was to pick me up at a quarter to five. The other students escorted me to the front of the school, where we all waited. The unpleasant events of earlier in the day were forgotten.
For the entire length of our journey in the delman, Ter Haar did nothing but talk about what a great man van Kollewijn was. He was a man who had ccntributed so much to the Indies, he said, opening up new vistas for the Natives. Even though, yes, even though it was Sugar that enjoyed most of these benefits.
I knew very little about this god, except for the fact that he was famous. I tried to understand what my friend was saying—that one man alone could change so much! What was his secret? What were his powers? If he did not have such powers, then how was it possible that he could be elevated to such godlike status, as if he were a king with the power of life and death over others? And he was just a member of the Lower House; his only task was to speak. Just to talk. Of course, he no doubt had a silver tongue. I just wasn’t able to picture in my mind what he would be like. I had to meet him for myself and hear from him directly what he had to say.
The Harmoni Club was impressive. Huge, magnificent, and opulent. The floor was made from tiles of black stone that reflected the light from the crystal chandeliers above. The air inside was cool and fresh. The rooms were filled with enormous, elaborately carved furniture. Every suite represented the fashion of a particular period. In one room there stood three huge billiard tables surrounded by billiard cues that looked as if they were lances guarding the tables. There was a picture of Her Majesty, standing alone, wearing a full-length gown and a white sash with black streaks, in a gold-painted carved frame. It stood higher than I did, and I was five feet.
This maiden, whom I had once praised so much, was about to walk down the wedding aisle with Prince Hendrik. It would be on February 1, 1901, Netherlands calendar, or February 6, 1901, according to Indies calendar, which was a Kliwon Friday. There hadn’t been time to decorate the ballroom for th
e big celebrations that were planned—as big as those at her coronation.
“It seems that you like to look at the picture of Her Majesty, but I know you are thinking about someone else,” reprimanded my friend. “Yes, there is a likeness. I don’t think you should dwell on the past too much, Mr. Minke. You have a long future in front of you.”
Suddenly he turned the conversation.
“And in this building”—he was starting up his lecture—“the first Liberal Movement was born. Mr. Dominie Baron von Hoevell called for the establishment of high schools in the Indies. Fifty years ago! Time sometimes passes so slowly! The governor-general himself ordered von Hoevell’s arrest. The club was surrounded by soldiers and the cannons were aimed at it—all because he wanted the government to build some high schools. Von Hoevell was detained, and kept in the palace that you passed on the way here, until he could be whisked on board the first ship back to the Netherlands. He was banned from ever landing in the Indies again. Have you ever heard his name?”
I wasn’t sure. Perhaps I had, but had forgotten. I shook my head.
“We can say, at the very least, that it is because of his efforts, Mr. Minke, that you were able to go to high school. Within ten years of his arrest, high schools were no longer unusual in the Indies. In this modern era, everything moves faster. You remember why? Because of the triumph of capital, in its search for profits. And Baron von Hoevell’s activities were just the beginning of greater efforts, efforts that have made the Indies what it is today. Today the Liberals are very powerful, and even more so since the emergence of the Radical wing, under the leadership of the man we will meet tonight. His influence is felt everywhere. His voice echoes with authority everywhere—in the Netherlands, the Indies, and perhaps even in Surinam.”
This friend of mine seemed to know very well just how ignorant I was. He repeated patiently all of the little I knew about Multatuli and Roorda van Eysinga. And when he got to the speeches of the lion of the Lower House, von Hoevell, and then on to the emergence of van Deventer, he brimmed over with enthusiasm as if the Liberals were the ones who were going to turn the Indies into a paradise overnight, in the way that Bandung Bondowoso built the Prambanan temples. The fight against state plantations! The abolition of forced labor! The establishment of new private plantations! Free labor! Character building through free labor! Free competition! Repay the moral debt to the Natives through Emigration! Education! and Irrigation!