Footsteps

  “Mr. Minke, mixing with the powerful is like going among wild animals. They fight each other; their hunger for victims is insatiable. Their hearts are like the Sahara Desert, dry and harsh. Even the ocean would disappear in that desert. I hope you’re not offended by my giving you this advice. It is very stupid to enter a den of wild animals unarmed.”

  There was no traffic. It was after eleven o’clock in the evening. Only the gas lamps along the streets were there to look up at the moon.

  You, O Remus, Romulus, drink up all you can from this wolf. So you may grow into a builder of Rome. People say all the Europeans in the Indies are wolves. What is Ter Haar doing here in the Indies except that he too is after prey? Be careful, Minke! Watch out for van Heutsz too! And van Kollewijn. And beware too of that sympathizer of the Native cause, Marie van Zeggelen. Look: If the Natives today had the courage to rebel against the Dutch, like Sultan Agung, then I might be facing Ter Haar not as a friend but as an enemy—and a relentless one at that.

  My first day in Betawi had been packed with so many different experiences. I would never forget it for as long as I lived.

  I arrived at the dormitory. All the lights were out. There was nothing for me to eat.

  3

  Partokleooo threw himself energetically and selflessly into the task of helping me catch up with my studies. As a trained teacher, he was able to explain very well all the lessons I had missed. He also went through with me the speech that the director delivered at the beginning of the year: “The Native people of the Indies have an average life expectancy of twenty-five years.”

  You could not imagine how much this shocked me, as Partokleooo repeated it all to me, sitting there on the bed, propped up against the wall.

  “Are you sure your notes are correct?” I asked.

  “Yes. Do you want me to go on or not? Very well, I will continue. The majority of the Javanese die from parasitic diseases when they are still children. Short indeed are the lives of the Javanese. They lost all their ancestors’ knowledge of medicine during the chaotic times of long ago….”

  “What did he mean by ‘chaotic times’?”

  “A time of great natural calamities, he said, and a time of great decadence and destruction among the Native communities wherever the Dutch were not in control…. And so the Natives lost all their healers and there was nobody to take their place…and so the people of Java fell victim to the thousands of parasites that inhabit the equatorial region. So now the government, as an act of goodwill, is providing you all the opportunity to work for humanity, to fight these diseases, to lighten the suffering of the sick….”

  “Humph! How beautiful!”

  “Every student who fails in his studies,” he continued, repeating the director’s speech, “is guilty of allowing his own people to die of these diseases, is guilty of inhumanity, and should be punished accordingly. Doctors make a great contribution to society. Everyone supports their work….”

  And so on and so forth. I gradually caught up with my lessons. I was also helped by a fellow we called Cupid’s Bow. From his name you might think he was European or Indo, but no, he was Javanese and as Javanese as you could be. He was the son of a veterinary assistant from Ponorogo. No one ever used his real name anymore, except for the teachers. None of us ever called him either just Cupid or Bow. He didn’t like it at first and often lost his temper with us. But nobody took any notice. In the end, he had to learn to live with it.

  “Why are people so strange?” sighed Partotenojo. “Look at me, nothing wrong with me at all, but just because I’m a bit shorter than other people, I get called Partokleooo as if I’m ‘loyo,’ pathetic and hopeless. But other than being short, I’m really quite handsome and attractive, aren’t I? Then look at Cupid’s Bow; he sticks out too much, even more than a European or a Jew.”

  “What do you mean, ‘sticks out’? Flat as anything is more like it.”

  “Flat? Yes, if we’re talking about his nose.”

  “Hush!” I reprimanded him, offended. He wasn’t talking about his friend’s nose protruding, but his upper lip.

  I was also almost given a nickname of my own. After I had left with Ter Haar that night, the students all got together to decide to call me Gemblung—stupid one. When I woke up the next day, I found the room empty. The shoes I had been wearing when I had collapsed into bed the night before had disappeared. The mirror revealed to me that my face had been painted in coconut oil with black and white stripes. There was a huge mustache curling right up to my eyebrows. And around my neck there hung a necklace and a piece of cardboard on which was written my new nickname.

  But this new nickname was canceled the moment they found out who I had been out to meet that night—VIPs as tall as pine trees. They then had to look at me differently, even though the reality was that I was nothing more than onion fertilizer.

  And that wasn’t all that had happened. They had also taken the portrait out of its cover. It had been decorated with all kinds of comments written on bits of paper and placed around the bottom of the portrait. I don’t know how many had given their comments, but there were quite a few. But they had to take it all back too after I threatened to make an issue out of what they had done. No educated person, no matter where they are, would violate the rights of others, I said. Only barbarians engaged in that kind of behavior, and they were barbarians whether or not they had sat on school benches and could read and write. I am ready to defend my rights, I said again, if it is the case that you people do not understand about rights.

  But it isn’t my intention to bore you all with stories of the misbehavior of children. Nor is it my intention to note down for you every boring, and sometimes disgusting, incident that occurred in the dormitory. In the midst of all this unpleasantness, the only bright spots were my friendships: with Cupid’s Bow, with Partokleooo, and even with Wilam.

  It turned out that Wilam was not the type to hold a grudge. He was considerate and helpful. The stories that proceeded forth from his mouth, now missing two teeth, were always interesting, especially the jokes he told about the English plantation owners.

  It was he who told this story for the first time: “Do you all know why it is forbidden to have a guling in the dormitory?” He laughed happily at his question.

  “Nah, listen well and I will tell you about it. You will not find a guling, that pillow that you all like to have with you in bed, anywhere else in the world. Anyway, that’s what my mama told me. Maybe things will be different in ten years’ time, who knows? The Natives of the Indies have only been using them for a little while. They started copying the Dutch. Everything pleasant brought in by the Dutch is immediately copied, especially by those cotton-brained priyayi. The English laughed at the Dutch for using the guling.

  “Only a few of the Dutch brought women with them,” he continued. “It was the same with other Europeans. Once they arrived here they were forced to take concubines. But the Dutch were also known to be really stingy. They wanted to return to Holland as wealthy people. So many of them didn’t want to take concubines. As a replacement for a mistress, they made the guling—a mistress that can’t fart. Hey, you, Kleooo—have you ever come across a mention of the guling in any of the Javanese literature you have read? No, you haven’t. And you, Sutan, what about in Malay literature? A big zero. It just didn’t exist. It was a pure Dutch invention—the mistress that doesn’t fart—’A Dutch Wife.’…”

  Whenever he was about to end a story, he always raised his nose and poked out his upper lip as if he were a he-goat.

  “And do you know who was the first to give them that name? Raffles, the lieutenant governor-general of the Indies.”

  “And the English in the Indies,” added Kleooo, “what was the first thing they did when they arrived in the Indies? They asked for a Dutch Wife, a nonfarting mistress. The Dutch, who considered the English the most miserly and greediest people on earth, named the guling ‘the British Doll.’…”

  “You’re making it up, Kleooo!”
everyone chided him.

  “No, I’m not. My father worked for twenty years for Dutch masters,” Partokleooo boasted proudly.

  My friend had become much more confident since we had become friends and he was protected from being bullied. He was only ever bullied before because he didn’t know how to defend himself.

  And I myself? It was only my friendships that provided relief from all this boredom.

  It took me only four months to catch up in my studies. It was true that there weren’t really any subjects that were difficult for me. Even so, I soon began to feel that medicine wasn’t for me. From the very beginning, our studies took the form of learning rules and categories. We were forced to bow down to things, dead and living, so that you disappeared among all that you learned. The learning you received made you feel worthless, drowning your personality. Perhaps it was true what some people had said—I was not meant to be a doctor.

  Most of the students had to study Dutch, except for me and two others. On the other hand, we were obliged to learn one of the regional languages. I chose Malay. I was also freed from studying English, German, and French.

  I had no chance to do any writing. Every hour was taken up by study. There was no time left for enjoying life. Buy a bicycle? No time, let alone for learning to ride one! It would have been wonderful to be able to go to a shop and learn to ride. My savings remained frozen in their hiding place.

  In the sixth month of study, all first-year students began to get Saturday afternoons off. Students in the two preparatory years did not receive that privilege. Anyway, as soon as Saturday afternoons became free, everyone went off to have a good time. Except a student named Sikun. After going with the other students a few times I became bored. I started to spend the afternoon in the library and was still there when my friends arrived back at the dormitory.

  So, as time passed I understood better and better that I was becoming a person alone among all my studies, among the jokes and laughter, the temptations and games, boasting, cynicism, and insults.

  The medical school was not for me.

  Among the Javanese students there were only two who held the title raden mas. There were four raden. Most were just mas. There was only one person with no title at all—Sikun.

  Sikun had been a clerk in the Tegal District Administration Office with a wage of 175 cents a month. He had worked for five years without any raise in his pay. A butcher took him as his son-in-law and he soon had two children. The butcher was very proud to have a son-in-law who was an office worker. He showered everything upon his son-in-law. He paid for private tutoring that Sikun received from a bankrupt Dutchman. Sikun studied Dutch and the other subjects in the HBS so that he could sit for the HBS graduation examination. He went to Semarang to sit for the examination and passed with the lowest marks in the exam. And now he found himself at the medical school with a salary of ten guilders a month. He had brought his wife and children to Betawi. He used every opportunity available to visit his family in Tanah Abang, where he could escape from the insulting barbs of his titled fellow students.

  The children of the upper echelons of the Native Civil Service did not generally wish to become doctors, to engage in work that involved working for one’s fellow human beings. They preferred to govern, to wield power, to toady, and, most important, to be toadied to. My brother once came to me in Betawi. He said straight out that he was sorry for me because I had not applied to join the Native Civil Service. His attitude made me study even harder. After he had been appointed a police supervisor, he became even worse. Oh well, good-bye. People, even brothers, go their own way down the road of life.

  Most of my friends also felt sorry for me: I had thrown away the chance to be a bupati—the highest position that any Native can achieve! And what would be my salary after I graduated from medical school? I would start with a mere eighteen guilders a month. I would have to work more than eleven hours a day. The highest my salary would ever reach, after thirty years of service, would be eighty-four guilders. And that was only if it was thought I had given good service.

  But at the moment, yes, now, with pocket money of ten guilders a month, food and board provided by the school, a young man could do whatever he liked to his full satisfaction. He could pay off the most expensive bicycle, or send home five guilders a month to his family, or send his younger brother to school, or marry and set up a household in Betawi. And even without the money he could already begin to attract prospective wives—he was a medical school student! A position was already impatiently awaiting him. A house with all its furniture, and transportation and servants. There would be no need to hunt out work. No need to end up in an office. He was one of the cleverest of people. He had spent six years just studying! Just studying, mind you! Eight years, if you counted the two years of preparatory classes. Only the chosen few could survive such a long time. Eight whole years!

  But neither was it unusual for many of the students to spend all their money before the month was up. And so we would all go off (sometimes I too would go) to Waterloo Park to listen to the military band and to look over, with wild and lecherous eyes, the nyai who were taking their children out for walks.

  All the students at the medical school had a basic knowledge of the character of the concubines. They could be coaxed and cajoled easily. They opened their hearts easily. Indeed, they made it easy to be coaxed and cajoled and they gladly would invite you home if their master was away. They were lonely people in the middle of a civilization that was not their own. They needed the attentions of the young Native men, like they needed chili and salad.

  And everyone boasted about their experiences with this or that nyai and whatever it was that they had got.

  These were all stories that worried me inside. This was all the opposite of what Mother had taught me—never trust a woman who is not your wife, who is willing to accept what you can give her. And now, all around me, dashing young men, with the trappings of education, free individuals, with ten guilders in their pockets, were all chasing after what it is that the nyai can give them! Would Mother think that they too, these men, could not be trusted? Mother said such women were basically prostitutes. And perhaps men such as that were also prostitutes.

  My respect for Mother grew even greater. I did not know whether Mother had ever faced temptation and yet had remained true to her word. And my respect for Nyai Ontosoroh in Surabaya also grew greater—she who had stood straight and firm in the face of the great tests that stormed down upon her.

  But was I better than my friends? Were my moral principles better or stronger? When I recalled again my own experiences in love and passion, they were so crystal clear in my mind, unsullied by any material desires. Now those memories were a source of strength for me. But once you used your lover’s money, that time you were in B—–! Fifteen guilders! Huh! That was to pay for a telegram I sent to her, and even that I later paid back.

  And my friends were buying and selling love with the concubines! Perhaps it was just that they were playing around and were able to get both pleasure and money at the same time. But what they did was such a serious thing, even if it was not accompanied by feelings of the heart. Not with their hearts? Could you in fact put your heart away in a cupboard?

  But I never felt superior to them. I was not something so special. Everyone is born equal. Isn’t that what Rousseau had said—the father of the French Revolution? The real problem was how to lead and be led, how to carry yourself and be carried.

  Aha, you say that everyone is equal. Then why do you still use your title, Raden Mas? That’s a legal matter. Should I leave myself open to be thrown like a beggar before the Native courts?

  Yes, all these things made me feel even more lonely, as if there was no way for me to make any real or intimate contact with the world around me.

  Every Saturday afternoon as we left the school grounds, you could see the parents of prospective brides making sure they would remember our faces. These were residents of the hamlets of Ketapang, Kwitang, and
also Abang Puasa, whose residents killed Nyai Dasima. They were hunting after a medical student son-in-law! Even Kwitang had become a hunting ground for students. This was not only because of the number of parents there who were hunting after sons-in-law, nor because this hamlet’s young women were particularly attractive to students, and not because, in any case, we students were respected by everyone everywhere. There was a more fundamental reason—every student needed a family. There he could get out of his traditional clothes, change into European clothes, and become a sinyo once again. In European clothes, we could wander wherever we wanted, neutral in identity, especially when chasing after the nyai.

  Then the students would return to their adopted family, dress again in their traditional clothes, and go back to the school dormitory.

  All the inhabitants of Kwitang knew about this custom, and the hamlet’s families ruthlessly competed among themselves to win the chance to look after one of us. And always there was a young daughter of marriageable age. The tradition of keeping such daughters out of sight until she had a partner had been destroyed by the medical school.

  A student need only nod, need only say yes. The next day or the day after, he would have a wife. It could be his first, or just a new one.

  I was no different. I also had a family. It was headed by Ibu Baldrun, an old woman, a widow who lived off her husband’s pension. She had two adopted sons. My friends were amazed that I had picked a family like that.

  Whenever I wanted to disappear into the city, I would go to Ibu Baldrun’s first and change into European clothes. To wander off in Javanese clothes, especially when the sun was at its hottest, would turn your head into a mountain with a thousand streams of tears, with your hair feeling as if it was going to fall out at any moment. And how much worse it is when your dandruff is acting up. Even the scratching of the sharpest of fingernails can provide no relief. And then to walk barefoot over the stone streets, with the droppings of all the city’s beasts of burden everywhere…uh!