Neither of us spoke for some time.
“Ann,” I began, “you seem to be getting better.”
“Thank you for your treatment, Mas Doctor.”
“From tomorrow you no longer need a friend to stay in your room with you.”
She looked at me suspiciously.
“You’re not going back to Kranggan?”
“If you still want me to stay, then, of course, I won’t go back.”
She frowned. For a moment, she glanced at the letters from Sarah and Miriam.
“Don’t you want to stay with me anymore?” she asked in a voice that sounded as if she was about to cry.
“Of course, Ann, while you’re ill.”
“Must I become ill again?”
“Ann, what are you saying?” and at that moment I remembered Dr. Martinet’s warning. And I was sure I hadn’t spoken roughly to her. I quickly added: “You must recover fully, Mama needs you greatly!”
“Why don’t you want to stay here with me just because I’m not sick anymore?” she asked nervously.
“What will people say?”
“What will they say, Mas?”
“Look, Ann, let me explain it to you: You’re better now. If you don’t want me to go back to Kranggan, then I won’t. Believe me. I’ll stay here at Wonokromo as long as you want. But not, of course, in your room. So beginning tomorrow, Ann, I want to stay and work in my own room, near the garden. If you feel lonely, you can come and visit me. It’s just the same, isn’t it?”
“If it’s just the same, let’s just keep on like this forever. You stay here in my room.”
“But upstairs is out of bounds for everyone except Mama and you. We must respect the rules, mustn’t we?” and there were still another twenty sentences that I uttered.
She didn’t interrupt any more. But her stare reached farther and farther out into the distance. Annelies was jealous.
* * *
The next day I visited Jean Marais. Before I left home, I prepared a question about South Africa. He listened silently.
“You know, Minke, as a European I’m already very ashamed that I have become involved in colonial affairs. Probably I’m very similar to the person you’ve just described, someone whom neither of us has met. I fought in Aceh only because I assumed Natives would not be able to fight back, and so wouldn’t fight back. But they fought back all right, really fought, with all their might, ignoring all obstacles. And they were courageous and daring too. Just as in many of the great wars of Europe. It was something to be very ashamed of, Minke: Europe’s latest weapons were pitted against the flesh of the Acehnese. Because you’ve asked me my opinion I’ll answer, but never ask me about these things again—it tortures my conscience.”
Without us realizing, Mr. Telinga had begun to listen in from a distance; then he came closer, sat upon the table. It looked as if he was eager to join in the discussion.
“All the colonial wars for the last twenty-five years have been fought in the interests of capital; fought to ensure markets that would guarantee more profits for European capital. Capital has become very powerful, all-powerful. Capital decides the fate of humanity.”
“War has always been the clash of force and of strategies so as to emerge victor,” Telinga intervened.
“No, Mr. Telinga,” Marais protested, “there has never been a war conducted for its own sake. There are many peoples who go to war who have no desire to be victor. They go to war and die in thousands, like the Acehnese now . . . because there is something they want to defend, something more important than death, life, or defeat and victory.”
“It’s all the same in the end, Jean. A contest between force and strategies to emerge victor.”
“That’s only how it ends up, Mr. Telinga. But if that’s your opinion, very good. Now if, for example, Aceh wins and Holland is defeated, will the Netherlands become an Acehnese possession?”
“There is no way Aceh can win.”
“Yes, that’s precisely the point. The Acehnese themselves know they can’t win, while the Dutch know too that victory will surely be theirs. Yet, Telinga, the Acehnese still descend to the battlefield. They don’t fight to win. They’re different from the Dutch. If the Dutch thought that Aceh was strong enough to defend itself, they would never dare attack, let alone start a war. The whole thing is a matter of calculating the profit and loss of capital. If the whole issue is just a matter of winning, why doesn’t Holland attack Luxembourg or Belgium, since they’re both closer and richer?”
“You’re a Frenchman, Jean. You don’t have any stake in the Indies.”
“Perhaps. At the very least I regret ever having taken part in the war here.”
“But you, like me, still accept the army pension!”
“Yes, just like you. But that pension is my right; due to me from those who sent me to war. Just like you. I lost my leg, you lost your health. That has been the only consequence of the war for both of us. We don’t want to have an argument, do we, Telinga?”
“You never used to talk like that when you were in the platoon!” accused Telinga.
“Then I was your subordinate, now I’m not.”
“What’s the point of this argument?” I intervened. “I only asked about South Africa. Good-bye.”
Then I went away and visited Magda Peters. She shook her head: “About South Africa? Do you want to become a politician?” she asked me in return.
“What is a politician really, miss?”
Once again she shook her head and looked at me as if I were someone suffering some grief. All we could do was sit there in silence.
“Later, when you have graduated. Then we can talk about this calmly. There is no need to talk about it now. You must make sure you graduate. Your marks are, indeed, not bad. With better ones you’re sure to pass. Don’t think about other things. Minke, are the stories true—I don’t know where they come from—that you’re living with some nyai or whatever?”
“Yes, miss.”
“You know what people think of them?”
“I know, miss.”
“Why are you doing it then?”
“Because it is not important where you reside. Especially when someone we call a nyai on the outside, miss, is actually no less than an educated person; indeed she is my teacher.”
“Teacher? What does she teach you?”
“How someone can, starting from nothing, become an outstanding, self-educated person.”
“Self-educated in what?”
“First of all in developing herself, then in developing a big business.”
“Don’t defend yourself with lies.”
“I think I’ve never lied to you, miss.”
“No, except this once.” She looked at me, her eyes blinking rapidly, a sign (according to my guess) that she was thinking hard. “Don’t disappoint me, Minke. You’re educated. It’s not fitting that you should act as if you’d never been to school.”
“What I said just now was my answer, as an educated person.”
The worry in her eyes began to go away. She blinked rapidly again, only it didn’t seem funny anymore.
“Explain to me how a nyai can become a self-educated person. Educated in a European way is what you mean, isn’t it?”
“At least as I understand it, miss. Perhaps I’m wrong; but try to visit us when you’re not busy—in the evening, for example. Miss will be escorted home. They don’t usually receive guests, but miss will be my guest.”
“Very well,” she said, accepting my challenge.
And I knew for certain that she would come.
“Would you like to visit now?”
“Very well. You should know, Minke, that I need to know what’s really going on—to pass on to the Teachers’ Council. Something could happen to you one day, Minke.”
So we departed. We arrived at five o’clock in the afternoon. I took her into the front parlor and asked her to sit down. I studied the look on her face.
“It’s nothing like I expecte
d,” she whispered. “In the Netherlands and Europe, a house like this . . . so this is where you live?” I nodded. “It’s not easy to own a house like this. Or to live in one. Oh, Minke, like the German houses of Central Europe.”
Her attention was caught by something. I followed her gaze. Annelies, in her black velvet gown, had entered the front room.
“Ann, this is my teacher, Miss Magda Peters.”
Annelies approached, bowed, smiled, and held out her hand. And my teacher seemed bewitched. Her eyes had no chance to blink. She stood and shook hands, her mouth wide open.
“Annelies Mellema, miss. Just recovering from an illness. Ann, would you like to call Mama?”
Annelies nodded as she took leave, and left without saying a word.
“Like a queen, Minke. Her face is so delicate. Like an Italian prima donna. Is she the nyai’s daughter?” I nodded. “She seems well educated, polite, and grand. Is it because of her you’re staying here, Minke?” I didn’t answer. She had to understand my silence. “It looks as if she might be your character in “Uit het Schoone Leven van een Mooie Boerin.”
“It’s indeed her, miss.”
“Prima donnas from Italy and Spain, ballerinas from Russia and France, none are as beautiful as she,” she said as if she were lamenting her own fate. Then, as if addressing herself, “Yes, I can see why so many people talk so much about Creole beauty. It’s a pity, though—the gown should be worn in the evening.”
Mama arrived on the scene in her usual clothes: a white embroidered Javanese blouse worn with a brown, red and green kain. She held out her hand to the guest.
“This is Mama, miss, and this is my teacher, Mama. Miss Magda Peters, my Dutch language and literature teacher. Mama is not used to receiving guests, miss,” I said, excusing myself to both parties, and because I had brought my teacher here without Nyai’s consent.
It appeared that Mama was not upset by my audacity; rather, she began:
“Are Minke’s studies going well, miss?”
“He could do better if he wanted to,” she replied politely.
“We are not used to receiving guests, miss,” said Mama in flawless Dutch. “We’re very happy that you have taken the trouble to visit.”
“Ma’am, my visit is actually related to school affairs. We want to find out for certain whether Minke can study properly here.”
“He leaves in the morning and returns in the afternoon. In the evening he reads, studies, or writes. I’m sorry, miss, I’m not used to being called ma’am and indeed I’m not a Mrs. It’s not an appropriate way to refer to me, not my right. Call me Nyai as other people do, because that’s what I am, miss.”
Magda Peters blinked rapidly. I could sense she had been shaken by this request from the woman standing before her.
“There’s no harm in being called ma’am. There’s no insult involved, is there?”
“There’s no harm. And there’s no insult. It’s only that it contradicts reality somewhat; it’s also not in accord with the law. I’ve never had a husband. There has only ever been a master who owns me, my person.” In her voice I could hear the bitterness of her life: sharp, a protest directed at humanity.
“Owns?”
“That’s what has happened, miss. As a European woman you would no doubt shudder to hear about it.”
I began to feel uncomfortable listening to this conversation. Mama was seeking compensation for her past wounds. An unhappy conversation, for the person listening and the person speaking.
“But slavery was abolished in the Indies almost thirty-five years ago, Nyai,” Magda Peters responded.
“Yes, miss, as long as there are no reports about slavery. I have read somewhere that there is still slavery in many parts of the Indies.”
“From the missionaries?”
“My situation is about the same.”
Magda Peters was silent for quite a while. She blinked rapidly.
“Ma’am is not a slave, and is not like a slave either.”
“Nyai, miss,” Mama corrected her. “A slave can live in an emperor’s palace, but still remain a slave.”
“Why does Nyai feel herself to be a slave?”
This personal problem, which had been buried so long, now, before this European woman, was seeking for a way out into the open, to protest, to complain, to condemn, to seek attention, to accuse, to charge, to judge—all at once. As I listened I became even more anxious. My thoughts were busy trying to find some excuse to slip quickly away. Meanwhile Nyai was opening the door to her past.
“A European, Pure European, bought me from my parents.” Her voice was bitter and filled with a desire for revenge which would not be satisfied even with five palaces. “I was bought to become the brood mother of his children.”
Magda Peters was silent. I hurriedly excused myself. I found Annelies upstairs by the window, reading a book.
“Why don’t you come down, Ann?”
“I’m finishing this book.”
“Why are you in such a hurry to finish it?”
“Really, I prefer hearing your own stories, Mas. Mas still hasn’t told me very many. You get me to read other people’s stories—these books. You do want to tell me a story, don’t you?”
“Of course.”
She resumed reading. All of a sudden she stopped, turned around towards me.
“Why have you come here? This is an out-of-bounds area, isn’t it?”
“To call you down, Ann. Miss wants to talk with you.”
She didn’t reply and kept on reading. I went up close to her. I stroked her hair. She didn’t react. When I pulled the book away from her, her eyes didn’t follow my action. Annelies wasn’t reading. She was hiding her face.
“What’s the matter with you, Ann? Angry?” There was no answer. “It must be a good story you’re reading.”
She bent over and I could feel her shoulders shuddering as she held back her sobs. I turned her around to face me. All of a sudden she hugged me and burst out crying.
“What’s the matter with you, Ann? I haven’t hurt you in any way, have I?”
And I don’t know if it was tens or hundreds of sentences I threw about everywhere to humor her. And she still didn’t speak. She hugged me tightly as if afraid I would come loose and fly up into the green heavens. Annelies was jealous.
Conversation between two people drifted in through the door, which wasn’t properly shut. It became increasingly clear that it was originating from the upstairs corridor. Mama could be heard calling out. Annelies released me from her embrace. I poked my head out to have a look. Miss Magda Peters and Nyai were waiting for me in front of one of the upstairs rooms.
“Miss wants to see our library, Minke. Come, I’m going to show her.” She opened the door to the room, a room I’d never entered.
The room was the library of Mr. Herman Mellema. It was as big as Annelies’s room. Three big cabinets full of heavily bound books stood side by side. There was also a glass cabinet which held Herman Mellema’s bamboo pipe collection. The furniture was all spotlessly clean. There was no carpet on the floor, exposing ordinary planks, neither parquetry nor polished wood. There was only one table with a straight-backed chair and an armchair. On the table there stood a white metal stand with fourteen candles. A book, which turned out to be a volume of magazines, lay open on the table.
“A very nice room, clean and quiet.” Magda Peters allowed her gaze to wander around the room until it fell upon the glass windows that exposed views of the country outside. “So beautiful!” Then she went straight to the table and took up the volume of magazines. She asked, without looking at any particular one, “Who is reading the Indische Gids?”
“Bedside reading, miss.”
“Bedside reading!” She stared wide-eyed at Nyai.
“The doctor advises that I read myself asleep.”
“Nyai doesn’t sleep well?”
“True.”
“Nyai has had so many troubles for such a long time?”
“Five years now, miss.”
“And Nyai hasn’t fallen ill?”
Mama shook her head, smiling broadly.
“So what is Nyai looking for in these magazines?”
“Just something to make me sleep.”
“What is Nyai’s other bedtime reading?” she asked like a prosecutor.
“Whatever I grab hold of, miss. I don’t really choose.”
Magda Peters blinked rapidly again.
“And what does Nyai prefer most?”
“What I can understand, miss.”
“Does Nyai know anything about Snouck Hurgronje’s Association Theory?”
“Excuse me.” Nyai took the magazine from my teacher’s hands, looked for a specific place, then showed it to Magda Peters.
My teacher glanced over the page quickly, nodded, then looked at me.
“Why did you bring up the Association Theory at school? You should have just asked Nyai.”
“I only wanted to find out more about it,” I said, even though I never knew that this library existed or that there existed a magazine which published articles about such things.
Magda Peters then inspected the books in the cabinets. Most were beautifully bound volumes of magazines. It was as if she wanted to inspect the contents of Nyai’s head. She didn’t seem to find the collection very interesting: They were mostly about livestock, agriculture, commerce, forestry, and timber. But there were also volumes of general and women’s magazines from the Indies, Netherlands, and Germany. Magda Peters’s gaze swept quickly over most of the library. Then she returned again to the row of colonial magazine volumes and stopped for quite a while in front of a row of books of world literature, all in Dutch translation.
“There is no Dutch literature here, Nyai.”
“My master wasn’t very interested in Dutch literature, except for Flemish writings.”
“Then Nyai must have read some Flemish books also?”
“Yes, there are some.”
“May I ask why Mr. Mellema did not like Dutch literature?”
“I don’t really know, miss. But he used to say that it was dominated by triviality, had no spirit, no fire.”