Magda Peters swallowed. She didn’t try to question Mama further. Then she shifted her attention again to the whole library, as if trying to give the impression that she had obtained a picture of the cultural level of Mama’s family, a family much slandered at my school lately.
“May I speak with Annelies Mellema?”
“Ann, Annelies!” called out Mama.
I went to her room. I found her sitting by the window. Her gaze was occupied with the great broad panorama in the distance, the mountain range and forests.
“Don’t you want to come, Ann?”
She still frowned. Didn’t answer.
“Very well. Stay in your room, Ann.” And I went and left her.
“Ann!” called Mama once more, softly.
“She’s not feeling well. Forgive her, miss, she’s just recovered from an illness.”
The two women went downstairs to the garden veranda while busily chatting to each other. I don’t know what about. One hour later I escorted my teacher home in the same buggy.
She invited me to come in and sit for a moment. But during the journey she did not speak at all.
“First, Minke, after seeing what that family is like, I feel that I’d very much like to visit there often. Your Mama is indeed extraordinary. Her clothes, her appearance, her attitudes. But there are too many sides of her personality. And, except for her language and the embroidery on her blouse, she is totally Native.
“That complicated personality of hers has come very close to taking on the progressive and bright aspects of Europe. And indeed she knows a great deal, too much for a Native to know, and a female Native at that. She is indeed fit to be your teacher. Only that growl of revenge in her voice and in the implications of her words . . . I couldn’t bear to hear it. If that vengefulness was missing, she’d be truly, brilliantly outstanding, Minke. This is the first time I’ve met someone, and a woman too, who didn’t want to make peace with her own fate.” She let out a great long breath. “And it’s amazing, her awareness of the law.”
I was silent. There were several things I did not understand at all. I would ask Jean when I got a chance.
“Just like something out of a legend from A Thousand and One Nights. Imagine, she feels it’s more proper that she be called Nyai. I thought it was only a part of her revenge. But, indeed, Nyai is the proper term for the concubine of a non-Native. She doesn’t like being treated in any special way. She continues to stand firm on her actual situation—with a grandness rooted in revenge.”
I still didn’t intervene. Mama was being analyzed as if she were a character in a novel and Magda Peters was elucidating her personality in front of class.
“A person who is used to giving orders, running things, after giving everything proper consideration, Minke. She could run a much bigger business. I’ve never met a female entrepreneur like her. A degree from a Business Academy would not guarantee ability such as hers. You’re right, Minke, she is a successful, self-educated person. And I’ve only talked about the business side. God! That’s what’s called a historical jump, Minke, for a Native. God, God! She should be living in the next century. God!”
I still only listened.
“In literary matters she could still learn from you, but even there she is, all the same, amazing. But you know what I found most amazing about her? She dared state her opinions! Even though there was no guarantee they were correct. She was not afraid of being wrong. Determined, with the courage to study from her own mistakes. God!”
I followed what she was saying without comment.
“I’d like to write about this extraordinary thing. It’s a great pity I can’t write like you, Minke. It’s true what she said: without spirit, without fire. All I have is the desire, only the desire. Nothing more. You should be happy, Minke, being able to write. And that Association Theory, Minke, it lies collapsed and broken just because of that Native woman, your Mama, Minke. If there were just a thousand Natives like that in the Indies, Minke, these Netherlands Indies—Minke, these Netherlands Indies could just shut up shop. Perhaps I’m exaggerating, but it’s only a first impression. Remember, first impressions, no matter how important, are not necessarily always correct.”
She was quiet for a while then let out a long breath again. Her eyes no longer blinked nervously.
“She could advance even further. It’s a pity that such a person would not be able to live among her own people. She is like a meteor shooting off by itself, traveling through space, knowing no bounds, who knows where eventually to come to ground, on another planet or back on our earth again, or to disappear in the infinity of nature.”
“How much you praise her, miss.”
“Because she’s a Native, and a woman, and is indeed amazing.”
“Please come again, miss.”
“Pity. It’s not possible.”
“As my guest.”
“It’s not possible, Minke.”
“Yes, Mama is always busy.”
“It’s not that. It seems your prima donna doesn’t like me, Minke. I’m sorry. Thank you for the invitation. She loves you very much, Minke, that prima donna of yours. You should be happy, Minke. Now I know what all the gossip has been about.”
14
I had come to feel at peace and safe at Wonokromo. Robert was never to be seen. Mama and Annelies never mentioned him. Even so it did not mean I could feel I’d taken his place. I put all my efforts into impressing people outside that I was not a bandit, and had no intention of acting like one. And that I was no more than a guest who could be told to leave at any time.
And one night after finishing some study I decided I would not do any writing. I would have a rest and then continue with some more schoolwork. I don’t know why I had become so industrious all of a sudden. I wanted to get ahead at school. One thing was certain: It was not because of pressure from my family or from Annelies.
And I received no particular encouragement from my mother’s letters either. They always asked if I was being beset by difficulties. I answered her fourth letter to tell her that I was doing well financially and to suggest that my monthly allowance be used for my younger brothers and sisters.
Correspondence was the hardest work. And in every letter I still gave Telinga’s address. I only used the Wonokromo address when writing to Sarah and Miriam. They had started this. And I never asked them where they obtained the address.
I’d finished three algebra exercises that evening. The clock’s pendulum struck nine times. The moment the chime stopped there was a knock on my door. Before I could answer, Annelies had entered.
“According to our rules you should be in bed by nine o’clock!” I rebuked her.
“No!” She frowned sullenly. “I don’t want to sleep if Mas won’t study in my room like before.”
“You’re becoming more and more spoiled Ann.” Even Dr. Martinet would not have been able to handle a patient as difficult as she. I knew for certain: she really wouldn’t go to sleep until her wishes had been one hundred percent fulfilled.
“Come on upstairs. Tell me a story until I fall asleep like you usually do.”
“I’ve run out of stories.”
“Don’t make it impossible for me to sleep, Mas.”
“Mama knows a lot of stories, Ann.”
“Your stories are always better,” and she closed all my books and pulled me up from my chair.
This doctor, obedient to his patient, gave in to her tugging, left the veranda, went upstairs, past Mama’s room and the library, and once again entered Annelies’s room. Over the last few days I hadn’t been putting her blankets on or pulling down the mosquito net. As soon as she seemed to be getting well, she had to do all that herself.
She climbed straight up into her bed, lay down, and said:
“Pull up my blanket, Mas.”
“You’re not really going to keep on being as spoiled as this?” I protested.
“Who else will spoil me if you don’t? Now tell me a story. Don’t just stand t
here. Sit here like you usually do.”
So I sat on the edge of the mattress, not knowing what I must do near this newly recovered goddess of beauty.
“Come now, begin a beautiful story. One better than Stevenson’s Treasure Island or Kidnapped, more beautiful than Dickens’s Our Mutual Friend. Those stories don’t speak, Mas.”
I must always surrender for her health’s sake!
“What kind of story, Ann? Javanese or European?”
“Whatever you like. I long for your voice, your words spoken close to my ear, so I can hear the sound of your breathing.”
“What language? Javanese or Dutch?”
“Don’t be so argumentative, Mas. Start a story now.”
So I began to invent a story. I was unprepared. It couldn’t just pop out of my head. And then I remembered the story of the love between Queen Susuhunan Amangkurat IV and Raden Sukra. It was a pity it was so frightening and wouldn’t be good for her health. Dr. Martinet had left me orders: You must tell her happy stories that have nothing frightening in them. This child is amazing, he said further, even though her growth and intelligence are normal, her emotions are still those of a ten-year-old child. Be a good doctor, Minke. Only you can cure her. Strive so that she believes totally in you. She dreams of a beauty that does not exist in this world, perhaps because she’s been forced to take on too many responsibilities too quickly. Her hopes are for a freedom without responsibility. Minke, such beauty, such incomparable beauty, must not die. Try. If you can become a vessel into which her trust can flow, only then will you be able to build up her self-confidence. Try hard.
So I began to make up a story as I went along. How it would end I didn’t know myself. I’ll plagiarize the characters at random, I thought. Let them complete their own tales.
“In a country, far, far away,” I began,—“you’re not being annoyed by mosquitoes, are you?”
“No. Why are there mosquitoes in that faraway country?” She laughed and her teeth glittered in the candlelight.
“In that far, faraway country there were no mosquitoes as there are here. Neither were there lizards crawling on the walls ready to eat them. Clean. That country was very, very clean.”
As usual her gaze rested upon me. Her eyes shone dreamily as they did when she was ill.
“This country was fertile and always green. Everything that was planted thrived. Neither were there any pests. There was no illness, there was no poverty. Everyone lived happily and enjoyed life. Everyone was clever and liked to sing and dance. Everyone had their own horses: white, red, black, brown, yellow, blue, pink, green. Not one was blemished with spots.”
“Kik-kik-kik.” Annelies restrained her giggling. “There are blue and black horses!” she said to herself slowly.
“And in this country there lived a princess of incomparable beauty. Her skin was as smooth as ivory-white velvet. Her eyes were as brilliant as morning stars. No one could bear to gaze upon her for too long a time. A pair of eyebrows, just like slopes of mountains, protected that pair of daylight stars. The form of her body was what every man dreamed of. So all the country loved her. Her voice was gentle, overcoming the heart of all who heard her. If she smiled, the resolve of every man was shaken. And when she smiled, her white, shining teeth gave hope to every admirer. And when she was angry, her gaze focused and blood streamed to her face . . . amazing; she became more captivatingly beautiful still.
“One day she was going around the garden, on a white horse—”
“What was her name Mas, this princess?”
I hadn’t yet found a fitting name, because I didn’t yet know whether this story was taking place in Europe, the Indies, China, or Persia. So I continued:
“All the flowers bowed down, bending their stalks, shamed and defeated by her beauty. They paled, losing their splendor and their color. Only after the princess passed by did the flowers stand straight again, look up at the sun and complain, ‘Oh, Great Sun God, why have we been shamed so? Did You not plant us on this earth as the most beautiful creatures in all of Your creation? You gave us the task of bringing beauty to humanity’s life. Why is there now someone more beautiful than us?’
“The sun, too, was shamed because of these complaints and in his shame he hid behind a great, dense cloud. The wind blew, shaking the sad-hearted flowers. Then rain soon came and withered the leaves of all those multicolored flowers.
“The princess continued her ride, taking no notice of what had occurred behind her. The rain and wind could not find it in their hearts to disturb her. All along the road people stopped to admire . . .”
I saw that Annelies had closed her eyes. I took the mattress broom and shooed away the mosquitoes, then dropped down the mosquito net.
“Mas,” she called, opening her eyes and holding on to my hand, preventing me from carrying out my intention.
I sat down again. The story had broken off. I groped around trying to start it up again:
“Yes, the princess rode on upon her horse. Everyone who observed her dreamed of how happy they would be if the gods would just turn them into the horse she was riding. But the princess did not know how they felt. She felt no different from anyone else. She never felt herself to be beautiful, let alone beautiful without peer.”
“What was the name of the princess?”
“Yes?”
“Her name . . . her name . . .” she pressed. “Wasn’t her name Annelies?”
“Yes, yes, Annelies was her name,” and the story turned to tell about Annelies. “She had all kinds of clothes. Her favorite was a black velvet evening dress, which she liked to wear at all times of the day.”
“Ah!”
“The princess longed for a beautiful love, more beautiful than had ever been glorified as having occurred among the gods and goddesses in the heavens. She longed for the arrival of a prince who was dashing, handsome, courageous, and more grand than the gods themselves.
“And then one day it happened. The prince she longed for arrived. He was indeed handsome. Manly also. But he did not have a horse of his own. Indeed he couldn’t even ride a horse.”
Annelies giggled again.
“He came in a rented buggy. There was no sword at his waist, because he had never gone to war. All be brought was a pencil, pen, and paper.”
Annelies laughed again.
“Why are you laughing, Ann?”
“Was Minke the name of this prince?”
“Yes, his name was Minke.”
Annelies closed her eyes. She still held my hand, afraid I would leave her.
“The prince entered the princess’s palace as if he had just been victorious in battle. They chatted together. In no time at all the princess fell in love with him. There could have been no other outcome.”
“No,” protested Annelies, “the prince kissed her first.”
“Yes, the prince almost forgot. He kissed the princess, and she went complaining to her mother. Not so her mother would be angry with the prince. But hoping her mother would approve of the prince’s action. But her mother paid no attention.”
“This time your story is wrong, Mas. Her mother not only paid attention. More than that. She was angry.”
“Is it true she was angry? What did she say?”
“She said: Why complain? You yourself hoped for and expected to be kissed.”
Now it was I who couldn’t stop myself laughing. So as not to offend her, I hurriedly resumed the story again:
“How stupid was the prince. Twice now he has erred in his story. Indeed, the princess was hoping for and expecting his kiss.”
“Liar! She neither hoped for nor expected it. She had no idea at all about what was going to happen. The prince came. He couldn’t ride a horse, was even afraid of horses. He came, and before she knew what was happening, he kissed her.”
“And the princess had no objections. Yes, she even forgot her sandals—”
“Liar! Ah, you’re lying, Mas,” and she pulled my arm hard, protesting against the untrue course
of the story.
And so I fell into the softness of her embrace. My heart began to pound like the ocean whipped by the west wind. All my blood rushed to my head, dragging away my awareness and disrupting my work as a doctor. And I returned her embrace. And I heard her shallow breathing. And my own breathing too, or was it all my own, though I didn’t realize it. The world, nature, dissolved into nothingness. There was only her and me, raped by a force that turned us both into a pair of prehistoric animals.
And we lay there exhausted, beside each other; we had lost something. All of nature suddenly went silent, without meaning. The pounding of my heart had stopped. Black clots began to arise within my heart. What was all this?
And Annelies held my hand again. Mute. And silently there was enmity between us. Enmity?
“Regrets, Mas?” she asked as I let go of a long breath.
And I did have regrets: an educated person with a mandate as a doctor. The clots of blackness were spreading everywhere. And indeed there were other regrets emerging that were not of my own will.
Annelies demanded an answer. She sat and rocked my body, repeating her question. I never guessed she was so strong. My answer was only to let out another long breath, longer still than before. She brought her face up close to mine to convince herself. I knew she needed an answer.
“Speak, Mas!” she demanded.
Without looking at her, I asked:
“Is it true I’m not the first man, Ann?”
She struggled free of me. Collapsed on the bed. Turned towards the wall with her back to me. She sobbed slowly. And I didn’t regret having been so cruel, asking her such a tormenting question.
She was still sobbing and I still didn’t react.
“You regret it, Mas, you regret it.” She began to cry.
And I remembered my task.
“I’m sorry, Ann,” and I stroked her thick hair in the manner she stroked the mane of her horse. She became quiet.
“I knew,” she forced herself, “that one day a man I loved would ask me that.” She became calmer and continued. “I have concentrated all my courage to be able to answer that question. To face it. I’m afraid. Afraid you’ll leave me. Will you leave me, Mas?” Her back was turned towards me.