All the time he was dressing me, he spoke in a strangesounding, monotone Dutch, as if it came out of the chest of a Native. He obviously wasn’t Dutch. According to his story, he often dressed and adorned the bupatis, including my father tonight, and the sultans of Sumatra and Borneo. He’d designed many of their clothes, and even now was often summoned by them. He said also that the costumes of the guards of the kings of Java were designed by him.
Silently I listened to his stories, neither affirming nor refuting them, although I didn’t believe them fully either.
He had dressed me in an embroidered vest, stiff, as if made from tortoiseshell. I could never have bent over in it. The stiff leather collar dissuaded my neck from turning around. Indeed the intent was that my body should be straight and stiff, not turning around frequently, eyes straight ahead like a true gentleman. Then a batik sarong with a silver belt. The style in which the batik was worn truly brought out that dashing East Javanese character. That’s what Father no doubt wanted. I suffered all this like a young maiden. A batik blangkon headdress, a mixture of East Javanese and Madurese styles, something entirely new, Niccolo Moreno’s own creation, was placed upon my head. Then came a ceremonial sheathed short sword, a keris inlaid with jewels. Then a black outer upper garment like a coat with a cut at the back so the people could admire the beauty of my keris. A bow tie made my neck, usually active guiding my eyes to their targets, feel as if it were being snared. Hot perspiration began to soak my back and chest.
In the mirror I found myself looking like a victorious knight out of those stories of the legendary eleventh-century prince, Panji. From under my shirt protruded velvet cloth embroidered with gold thread.
I was clearly a descendant of the knights of Java, so I too was a knight of Java. But why was it a non-Javanese who was making me so dashing? And handsome? Why a European? Perhaps an Italian? Already since Amangkurat I in the 1600s, the clothes of the kings of Java had been designed and made by Europeans, said Mr. Niccolo Moreno. I’m sorry, but your people only wore blankets before we came. Below, above, on the head, only a blanket! His words truly hurt.
Whether his story was true or not, in the mirror I did look dashing and handsome. Perhaps people would say later: “a true Javanese costume,” forgetting all the European elements in the shirt, collar, tie, and even forgetting the last and velvet made in England.
I considered my clothes and my appearance to be products of mankind’s earth at the end of the nineteenth century, the time of the birth of the modern era. And I truly felt that Java and all its people were a not-too-important corner of this earth of mankind. The town of Twente in Holland now wove for the Javanese, and chose the material too. Village-woven cloth was left now only to the villagers. The Javanese were left with only batik-making. And this one body of mine—still the original!
Mr. Moreno went. And I sat down. When I became aware of the sounds of the East Javanese gamelan, which would cradle this evening’s atmosphere, I awoke from my reflections, looked in the mirror again and smiled with satisfaction. In accord with custom, I would be Father’s and Mother’s escort as they entered the reception. My brother would lead the way, while my sisters had no public function. They would be busy out in the back.
The guests had all arrived. Father and Mother came forth. My brother was in front, I behind them. As soon as we entered the reception area in the pavilion the assistant resident of B came up, because that was the program.
All stood in respect. Mr. Assistant Resident walked straight to Father, offered his respects, bowed to Mother, shook hands with my brother and me. Only then did he sit beside Father. The gamelan played a song of welcome, flaring up and filling the reception area and people’s hearts. And the pavilion was packed with people, their faces shining with pleasure and the light of the gas lamps. Behind them in the compound, on woven mats, sat rows of village heads and village officials.
The master of ceremonies, the bupati’s chief executive assistant, the patih of B, opened the program. After a moment’s hesitation, the gamelan became silent, as if controlled by some supernatural power.
The Dutch national anthem, “Wilhelmus,” was sung. People stood. Very few joined in singing. Most, of course, couldn’t, only one or two Natives. The others just stood gazing, perhaps swearing at that strange and aggravating melody.
Mr. Assistant Resident B, as the representative of Mr. Resident Surabaya, began to speak. Mr. Controller Willem Ende came forward, ready to interpret in Javanese. Mr. Assistant Resident shook his head and waved his hand to prevent it. He indicated that I should be interpreter.
For a moment I was nervous, but in a second I regained my character. No, they are no better than you! And that voice gave me courage. Carry out this task in the same way as you take on your exams!
I came to the front, forgetting to bow and stand with my hands clasped before me, according to Javanese custom. I felt as if in front of class. Wherever my eyes wandered they collided with the eyes of the bupatis. Perhaps they were admiring this Javanese knight in his half-Javanese, half-European clothes. Or perhaps they were indulging their antipathy towards me because of my not showing respect towards them.
Mr. Assistant Resident finished his speech, and I finished putting it into Javanese. He shook hands with Father. And now it was Father’s turn to speak. He didn’t know Dutch, but that was still better than the other bupatis, who were illiterate. He spoke in Javanese and I put it into Dutch. Now I delivered it in a totally European manner directed at Mr. Assistant Resident B and the Europeans in attendance. I saw Mr. Assistant Resident nodding, and observing me as if it were I who was giving the speech, or perhaps he was enjoying my act as a monkey in the middle of a crowd. Father’s speech ended and so too did my translation. The senior officials stood up and congratulated Father, Mother, my brother, and me.
When Mr. Assistant Resident congratulated me he felt he had to praise my Dutch.
“Very good,” then in Malay, “Tuan Bupati, Tuan must indeed be happy to have such a son as this. Not only his Dutch, but more importantly his attitude.” Then he resumed in Dutch. “You are an H.B.S. student, yes? Can you come to my house tomorrow afternoon at five o’clock?”
“With pleasure, sir.”
“You will be picked up in a carriage.”
The congratulations did not take long. The village dignitaries didn’t normally shake hands with the bupati. So Father’s hand was saved from the twelve hundred or so hands of the village officials. They stayed seated on their mats out in the compound.
The gamelan resumed its tumultuous din. A full-bodied dancer entered the arena as if flying, carrying a tray, upon which was a sash. Carrying the silver tray, she made her way directly to the assistant resident. When the white official rose from his chair, she took the sash and draped it over his shoulder.
People cheered and clapped in approval. He nodded to Father, asking permission to open the tayub dance. Then the assistant resident nodded to the crowd. Unhesitatingly he stepped forward, partnered by the dancer, and moved into the center of the gathering to the crowd’s applause and cheering. And he danced, his two fingers holding the corners of the sash, and at every beat of the gong he jerked his head in rhythm with the gong. And before him that full-bodied, pretty, eye-catching woman danced provocatively.
A few minutes later another dancer entered running, also gloriously pretty. With a silver tray in her hand, she entered the arena carrying liquor in a crystal glass. She took up a position beside the assistant resident and joined in dancing.
The official stopped dancing and stood up straight in front of the new dancer. He took the crystal glass and swallowed down three quarters of its contents. The glass with the remaining liquid he pressed to the lips of his dance partner, who drained it down only after trying to resist while still dancing. Then she bowed down her head in extreme embarrassment.
The gathering cheered in glee. The village chiefs and officials stood and contributed to the hubbub.
“Drink it, sweetie! Drin
k, hoséééééé!”
That handsome dancer with her bare, firm, shining, langsat-fruit skin took the glass from the official’s hands and placed it on the silver tray.
Mr. Assistant Resident nodded with pleasure, clapping gleefully, and laughed. Then he returned to his chair.
Now another dancer came and offered the sash to Father. And he danced with her beautifully. And that dance too ended with liquor from a silver tray.
Following this, the assistant resident went home. The bupatis too then went home, one by one, each in his own grand carriage. The village chiefs, district officers, police constables, charged the pavilion, and the tayub dance continued until morning with the shout of hoséééé after every swallow of liquor.
* * *
I only found out the next morning that in my bag there was a small bundle of silver coins. Wrapped in paper, with Annelies’s writing: “Don’t let us go for long without hearing news from you. Annelies.”
The money totalled fifteen guilders, enough for a village family to live for ten months, even twenty months if their daily budget was kept at two and a half cents a day.
That morning I set off to the post office. The postmaster, I don’t know his name, an Indo, shook my hand and praised my Dutch at the previous nights’ reception as being excellent and very exact. All the office employees stopped working just to listen to our conversation and to take in what I looked like.
“We would be very proud if you would work here; you are an H.B.S. student, yes?”
“I only want to send a telegram,” I answered.
“There’s no bad news, I hope?”
“No.”
The postmaster attended to me himself and gave me the form. He invited me to sit at a table, and I began to write, then handed the form back to him. Once again he attended to it himself.
“If you have the opportunity, perhaps we could invite you to dinner?”
It appeared that the assistant resident’s invitation had become big news in B. It could be predicted that all the officials, white and brown, would be sending me invitations. So, all of a sudden, I’d become a prince without a principality. How tremendous, an H.B.S. student! in his last year! in the middle of an illiterate society. They will all be out to indulge me. If the assistant resident has started inviting you, naturally you are without flaw, everything you do is right, there is nothing you would ever do that could be said to have violated Javanese custom.
That prediction didn’t have long to wait before it was verified. As I left that small office I surveyed the whole area. Everyone bowed in respect. Perhaps among them there were some already sizing me up for their son-in-law or a brother-in-law. “Imagine: an H.B.S. student.” And it was true. On arrival back at home I found several letters had already arrived, all written in Javanese script, all invitations!
I didn’t know one of the people inviting me. My guess remained the same: They were all thinking of themselves as my future parents or brothers-in-law. “Imagine: the son of a bupati, himself considered to be a future bupati, an H.B.S. student, final year. As young as that and he’s already been noticed by an assistant resident. He even defeated the controller!”
B! A gray corner on this earth of mankind! I spent the whole morning writing apologetic replies: I am unable to accept your invitation because I must return quickly to Surabaya.
And that afternoon the promised carriage arrived to pick me up. I wore European clothes, as was my usual way in Surabaya, even though Mother didn’t approve.
It seemed that the news about my invitation had spread throughout all B. People needed to see me cover that short distance between the bupati building and the assistant-residency building. Unfamiliar people in neat Javanese dress, but with naked feet, bowed in respect. Those wearing hats over their blangkon headdresses needed to raise them.
The carriage took me straight to the back of the assistant residency building, stopping at the veranda.
The assistant resident rose from his garden chair, as too did the two young women beside him. He got in his greeting first.
“This is my eldest daughter,” he introduced her, “Sarah. This is my youngest daughter, Miriam. Both are H.B.S. graduates. The youngest went to the same school as you, before you, though, of course. Well, excuse, me, I have some unexpected work to do,” and he went.
So this was what the honored invitation rocking B was all about. I’m introduced to his daughters and then he goes.
Probably Sarah and Miriam were older than I. And every H.B.S. student knew with certainty: Seniors seek every opportunity to put on airs, to strike a pose, to insult and to topple upsidedown any poor junior.
You be careful now, Minke. See, Sarah is starting:
“Is Miriam’s Dutch language and literature teacher, Mr. Mähler, still teaching? That crazy, talkative one?”
“He’s been replaced by Miss Magda Peters,” I answered.
“No doubt more talkative still and with only a kitchen vocabulary,” she followed on.
“Do you know for sure that she is a Miss?” asked Miriam.
“Everyone calls her Miss.”
And Miriam giggled. Then Sarah too. Truly, I didn’t know what they were laughing about.
I answered hotheadedly and recklessly:
“I think she has more than just a kitchen vocabulary. She is my cleverest teacher, the one of whom I’m most fond.”
Now they both laughed, giggling, while covering their mouths with their handkerchiefs. I was confused, not knowing what was so funny. For a moment I saw shining glances coming from my left and right.
“Fond of a teacher?” teased Miriam. “There has never been a Dutch language and literature teacher whom people have liked. Castor oil dispensers, all of them. What do you get from her?”
“She can cleverly explain the Dutch eighties style and compare it with the contemporary style.”
“Oho!” cried Sarah. “If that’s the case, try declaiming one of Kloos’s poems, so we can see if your teacher really is so great.”
“She is clever in explaining the sociological and psychological background of the works of the eighties,” I continued.
“Very interesting.”
“What do you mean by psychological and social background?”
Sarah and Miriam burst into a fit of giggling again.
Now I was beginning to become annoyed with their giggling. I moved across to the assistant resident’s chair to avoid their glances. Now I faced them directly. And they came over as Pure-Blooded girls who were adroit and not at all unattractive. Yet a junior could never relax his vigilance with seniors.
“If you do indeed require an explanation of that,” I continued, putting on a serious countenance, “we would need to look at actual literary texts.”
Seeing me get more and more into a corner, their giggling escalated and they glanced at each other knowingly.
“Come on, when has there been a Dutch language and literature teacher who talked about social and psychological background? It sounds a lot of hot air to me! What does she want to become, this Miss Magda Peters? At the most she’d be able to present the Dutch Eighties Generation writers who barked at the sky destroyed by the factory smoke, the fields blasted by the din of traffic, under assault by roads and railway lines.” Miriam, who was more aggressive, attacked. “If she wants to discuss social background she shouldn’t be talking about that sentimental generation, she should be talking about the writer Multatuli . . . and the Indies!”
“Yes, that’s when you’re really talking about noble literature, where mud has fostered the growth of the water lily.”
“She’s also spoken about Multatuli,” I answered resolutely.
“Ah, come on, how could Multatuli be discussed in school? Stick to the truth. He has never been mentioned in any textbook.” Miriam continued her attack.
“Miriam’s right,” Sarah confirmed. “If one wants to talk about social background, Multatuli is indeed a typical example.” Then she glanced at her sister.
“Miss Magda Peters not only put Multatuli forward as a typical example. She went so far as to elucidate his writings.”
“Elucidate them!” cried Sarah disbelievingly. “An H.B.S. teacher in the Indies elucidating Multatuli! Could that happen in the next ten years, Miriam?” Miriam shook her head in disbelief. “Or have you changed your textbooks?”
“No.”
“Your teacher is truly puffed up. You’re only her pupil,” Sarah tormented me.
“No.”
“Then your teacher is really daring. If what you say is true, she could get into trouble.” Miriam began to get serious.
“Why?”
“How simple you are. So you don’t know. And you need to and indeed are obliged to know.” Miriam continued. “Because if what you say about your teacher is true, maybe she is from the radical group.”
“There’s nothing wrong with the radicals, is there? They’re bringing progress to the Indies.” By this time I felt really stupid.
“But good doesn’t necessarily mean right, and progress might not yet be appropriate. It could come at the wrong time and place!” pressed Miriam.
Sarah cleared her throat. She didn’t speak.
“Come on, tell us which of his writings she is enthusiastic about?”
They were becoming more and more annoying. And a junior, I don’t know who started the rule, must always show respect. So:
“The main work is of course Max Havelaar or De Koffieveilingen der Nederlandsche Handelsmaatschappÿ—The Coffee Auctions of the Netherlands Trading Company.”
“And who do you think Multatuli is?” Now Sarah was launching an assault on me.
“Who? Eduard Douwes Dekker.”
“Excellent. You must also know of the other Douwes Dekker. That’s obligatory.” Sarah continued her attack.
This mad senior was getting worse and worse. And why was she attacking me like this, glancing at her sister too, lips trembling as she held back her laughter? They’re playing out a drama, playing around with a Native slave. They were going too far. There was only one Douwes Dekker known to history.