This Earth of Mankind

  During a visit to the house of an important citizen to arrange an order for a family portrait, I found that person reading an English magazine. When he went inside to fetch something, the magazine was left lying open on the table. Indeed a coincidence. And even more a coincidence that I needed to take a peep into the magazine and found an article by Dr. Martinet inside. Its title was “The Beginning of a New Age of Social Transformations as a Source of New Illnesses.” In a box there was a paragraph that announced that any therapy that did not take into account the patient’s social background was still primitive.

  The man returned and I put the magazine down again. Since that moment I knew that Dr. Martinet was also a writer. Not a writer of stories like me, but a scientific writer.

  And when he arrived that afternoon I tried to observe his behavior more carefully. I no longer needed to fear him, scared that he would peep into my psyche.

  As usual his story that time also contained a message, even though it was told jokingly. It was about twins who, ever since they were children, ate from the same plate and drank from the same bowl. As soon as they entered adulthood, though their faces were identical, they became different people. Each was moved by different desires and dreams. Their desires and dreams shared the same origins. They were born out of an unfulfilling reality and also of differing images of themselves, of what they wanted to become.

  At first I didn’t understand what he was getting at. Mama and Annelies didn’t say anything either. Perhaps they were bored, but then he added:

  “Like Miss Annelies here. She has everything: money, a mother who loves her, incomparable beauty, many skills. But there is still something that she feels she does not or does not yet have. You must recognize that she has such a desire. If not it will become an illness. And unconscious desire can govern one’s body with great viciousness, showing no pity. Both emotions and thoughts are controlled by it, governed by it. If such a desire is not recognized people can behave as if ill—as if disturbed. Miss, what is it that you want so much that you have fallen ill?”

  “There isn’t anything. Truly there’s nothing.”

  “And so why have you all of a sudden gone red? Isn’t it true you want Mr. Minke?”

  Annelies glanced at me, then bowed down her head.

  “Nyai, if I may make a suggestion, marry these two at the very first opportunity.” He looked straight at me. “And Mr. Minke, you have learned to dare? Learned to be strong as well as daring to learn?”

  He didn’t continue. A rented carriage entered the compound. The driver helped his passenger down: Jean Marais. May jumped down, then led her father along.

  I introduced them to the others:

  “Jean Marais, artist, designer of household furniture, French nationality, my friend doesn’t speak Dutch.”

  The atmosphere changed. The problem was that Dr. Martinet didn’t understand Malay. Mama and Annelies didn’t understand French, even though Dr. Martinet did. Only May and I knew all their languages. And May quickly stuck to Annelies.

  Dr. Martinet nodded his head seeing Annelies’s joy in gaining a younger sister while May obtained an elder sister. In a second he directed his eyes at Jean, and asked in French:

  “How many children do you have?”

  “There have been no opportunities for May to have brothers or sisters, Doctor,” and his answer and his eyes radiated his displeasure at having to answer that question.

  But Martinet, with his practice of piercing through into another’s psyche, paid no attention and continued in Dutch addressed to no one in particular:

  “How beautiful it would be if it were possible for the two girls to get together. It should have happened long ago.”

  Meanwhile Annelies had taken May inside the house. They didn’t come out again. Their laughter and chatter could be heard in the distance, sometimes in Malay, sometimes in Dutch and Javanese. Jean Marais shook his head as he listened to his child’s voice. His face shone. But the atmosphere still remained awkward. Dr. Martinet felt uncomfortable. He excused himself, and climbed aboard the carriage that was waiting for him beside the house.

  “Mr. Marinet is a very clever Doctor,” I said in Malay. “It was he who cured Annelies. We are very grateful. This friend of mine here, Jean Marais, has come to ask permission to paint Mama, if Mama agrees and has time.”

  “What’s the use of being painted?”

  “Madam,” Jean responded.

  “Nyai, sir, not madam.”

  “Minke greatly admires madam—”

  “Nyai, sir.”

  “—as an extraordinary Native woman. He is always singing madam’s praises—”

  “Nyai; sir.”

  “—so we are in agreement that they should be made eternal in a picture. In the future, who knows if in one or forty years, people will still know who you are and be able to admire you.”

  “I’m sorry, but I have no desire to be admired.”

  “That can be understood. Only stupid people admire themselves. But it is not madam herself who admires madam, no—but rather the living witnesses of the age.”

  “It’s a pity, sir—I’m not willing. Not even to have my photo taken.”

  “If so, yes, it’s indeed a great pity. If so—if so—may I then just look upon madam so as to memorize you in my heart?” he asked politely and awkwardly. Nyai went red. “So that I can do the painting at home.”

  Nyai’s gaze swept from me across to the house, then to the signboard in the distance. Finally it settled on the garden table. She looked disturbed, embarrassed, and her movements were awkward.

  “No, no sir.” She was embarrassed. “And you, Minke, what have you been saying about me outside?”

  “Nothing bad, Madam. Only praise.”

  Seeing the confusion Nyai was in, I spoke up quickly: “Mama doesn’t want to be painted now. Perhaps at some other time.”

  “Not at any time.”

  “He’s my friend, Mama.”

  “Then he’s my friend too.”

  Jean Marais, who had always been sensitive, perhaps because of his deformity, looked nervous and as if he wanted to leave quickly. His eyes nervously sought out his daughter, but only her voice could be heard singing in the distance.

  “She is inside, sir,” said Nyai. “Please come in.”

  We entered. The gay singing of May and Annelies became clearer. And Nyai seemed to be very happy to hear it. I’d never heard Annelies singing while I’d been at Wonokromo. It seemed as if she was returning to her childhood, a period that was far too short, torn away from her by responsibilities and work.

  Jean was lost in silent daydreaming.

  “Mr. Marais,” said Mama after we had all been sitting silently in the front room. “Your child, it seems, has brought a gust of fresh air to this house. What about if she comes here often, just as Dr. Martinet suggested?”

  “If the child wants to, I can see no reason why she shouldn’t.” His voice was despondent, as if he was afraid of losing something.

  “Minke, Nyo, invite Mr. Marais to stay overnight.”

  “What about it, Jean, would you like that?”

  For the umpteenth time I saw how awkward this artist was, this creator of beauty. He couldn’t even answer such a simple thing. He gazed at me, not knowing what to do.

  “Yes, Jean, you should stay the night. Tomorrow, early in the morning, I’ll take you back to the workshop so you don’t have to open late.”

  He nodded in agreement, forgetting to say thank you for such a friendly invitation.

  That night as we lay in the same bed before going to sleep, trying out Dr. Martinet’s method of conversing, I asked:

  “Jean, you seem dispirited lately. Are you still lamenting over your past? I’m sorry.”

  “That is the question of a writer, Minke. You’re truly a writer now, one hundred percent.”

  “It’s not that Jean. I’m sorry. I’m far, far younger than you, Jean, with far less experience and knowledge. Will you answer, Jean?”
/>
  “It’s a very personal thing. And moreover I’m going to close the matter with the completion of that painting I started a while ago. Are you going to write about me?”

  “You are a very individual person, Jean. Yes, providing I can do it properly. What is it that you really desire, Jean?”

  “Desire? Ah, you! You are an artist. I am an artist. Every artist desires—dreams about—reaching the peak of his success. Success! And he gathers together all his energy, Minke, only to defend that success, a success that always torments and oppresses him.”

  “But your voice is so despondent, as if you no longer believe that such success will ever come.”

  “Such a question! You are truly already an artist. I hope that question was born from your own spiritual struggles, a fruit of your own recent work. It is truly not the question of somebody your age. A question that contains authority. Do you believe in your own questions?”

  I stopped. I asked as confidently but casually as possible:

  “What do you mean by authority?”

  “In short: someone who truly understands his own questions.”

  It was clear he wasn’t sleepy. And it was clear too that my efforts to get him to open up had failed.

  And on that night I submerged myself into so many problems. I felt I was saying good-bye to my youth, which had been so gloriously beautiful and full of victories. Yes, even though they mightn’t mean anything to others. It was all these things that I had noted down that gave me the right to claim victories. And the greatest of these victories was Annelies’s love. Even though, yes, even though she was no more than a fragile doll.

  The evening silence was broken only by the sound of the pendulum clock.

  Then I remembered a sentence once uttered by Dr. Martinet:

  “Nyai’s dairy cattle, in the process of becoming dairy cows, fully developed cows, adult cows, need only thirteen or fourteen months. Months! Human beings need tens, even scores, of years before they grow into full adults, human beings at the peak of their abilities and their worth. There are indeed those who never grow into adults, who live off the handouts of other people and of society: the insane and criminals. The resilience and strength—or otherwise—of a person’s abilities, and his worth, are directly related to the size and number of the trials he has undergone. Those who always run from tests and trials—the insane and the criminal—never reach adulthood. A cow is fully developed in only thirteen or fourteen months—and without undergoing any trials, any tests.”

  Ya Allah, in truth, the trials and tests You have made me undergo have been too great for someone as young as me. My situation has forced me to grapple with questions that should not yet be my concern. Give me the strength to face every trial and test You confront me with, just as You have done with others before me . . . I am not insane. And neither am I a criminal. And never will be.

  16

  That morning the sky was overcast. It had been a fine, clear week. It was only my heart that was not clear. The gray clouds that suddenly appeared within my breast warned me that a storm was on the way. Yesterday when I was out riding (all of a sudden I could ride quite well!) with Annelies—a Saturday afternoon with no school discussion—I glimpsed Fatso for a moment. Since then I had begun to feel anxious again.

  I saw him on a cheap horse riding out of one of the villages on company land. In the evening, when Darsam came to my room to study reading and arithmetic, I refused to teach him. I told him there was a fat man who was acting suspiciously, who had followed me from B. (Yes, I had suddenly remembered: He had bought a ticket at the railway station at B immediately after I bought mine. And I remembered too that he had arrived earlier and had hung around the platform talking to somebody.)

  “Is he slant-eyed, Young Master?” Darsam asked.

  “A bit,” I affirmed.

  “Yes, he’s been seen several times now in the village,” Darsam continued, and he thought he was an ordinary peddler.

  “If he were a peddler, he’d have a pigtail for sure. He didn’t,” I said. “Maybe he’s on orders from Robert.”

  Darsam didn’t answer.

  “Where is Robert now? He hasn’t been seen since I returned from B.”

  “He wouldn’t dare come home. Do you remember what I told you before, Young Master? He ordered me to kill Young Master? And I said to him: My employers are Nyai and Noni; their friends are my friends. If Sinyo wants Young Master dead, it’s best that it is Sinyo himself that I cut down. You’re not my employer—look out! I pulled out my machete, and he ran.”

  It was yesterday that our conversation took place. The appearance of Fatso cast a shadow over my soul. And the morning sun was not able to cast out the gray clouds inside me.

  “So you’ve seen Fatso?” I had asked Darsam the night before. “If you meet him again what will you do?”

  “If it’s true he’s Robert’s man, he’ll feel the steel of my machete.”

  “Hush! Don’t be crazy,” I forbade. “You mustn’t do that. If you did, everyone would get into big trouble. You mustn’t, Darsam, you mustn’t, understand?!?”

  “I mustn’t, Young Master, all right, I mustn’t. But I’ll beat him until all his bones are broken, so he won’t be able to do anything again for the rest of his life.”

  “No. We don’t yet know what the situation really is. If the police become involved, who’ll help Mama? I can’t. I’m not able.”

  And Darsam was silent. Then he spoke slowly and hesitantly: “All right, I will listen to Young Master.”

  “Yes,” I said, “you must listen. I don’t want to be the cause of some disaster befalling this family. And . . . we must ensure that no one else knows about Fatso.”

  And that morning I saw Darsam walking hither and thither restlessly. He was deliberately making his presence known so that I could call him at any time if I needed him. I knew: He was guarding my life from Fatso.

  The three of us—Mama, Annelies, and I—were sitting on the front veranda listening to a recording of a popular song. The music jumped about like a school of river prawns at flood time. My heart was still enveloped by those gray clouds. I had a premonition: Something was going to happen.

  I observed Mama and Annelies one after the other. And Mama was clearly suspicious of Darsam because of his unusual behavior.

  “You seem uneasy, Mama,” I said.

  “It’s always the same. If Darsam is running about like a kitchen mouse, I always become uneasy. Something always happens; I’ve been restless since last night. Darsam!”

  And Darsam came and stood at attention.

  “Why are you running about like that?” asked Mama in Madurese.

  “These itchy feet of mine just don’t seem to want to stay still; they keep moving about of their own accord, Nyai.”

  “Why aren’t your itchy feet itchy out at the back?”

  “What can I do, Nyai, these feet of mine keep taking me to the front.”

  “All right. But your face is so frightening. Harsh. Your eyes are wide open and are thirsting for blood.”

  Darsam forced himself to laugh exuberantly and left after raising his hand in respect. His mustache still waved up and down as if he were pronouncing some mantra. His eyes were indeed wide open today, as if his ears were capturing some mysterious voice from the heavens.

  “Why are you so quiet, Ann?” I asked.

  “It’s nothing,” and she rose and went over to the phonograph and turned it off.

  “Why did you turn it off?” Mama asked.

  “I don’t know, Mama, the music just sounds like a lot of noise today.”

  “Perhaps Minke still wants to listen to it?”

  “It’s all right, Mama. Ann, do you still remember the man who was riding the horse yesterday?”

  “Wearing the brown-striped pajamas?” I nodded. “Who is he?”

  “Who was riding a horse? Where?” Mama asked hurriedly.

  “In the village, Mama,” Annelies explained.

  “No one has eve
r visited the villages on horseback. Except for Mrs. Karyo’s son, the watchman at D.P.M.”

  “It wasn’t him, Mama. And he never wears pajamas when he comes home to visit his parents. This man was fat, clear langsat-colored skin, a bit slant-eyed.”

  “Darsam!” Mama called.

  “Ah, see Nyai, that’s why I need to have itchy feet!”

  And Mama didn’t respond to his jest.

  “Who was the fat man on the horse in the village yesterday?”

  “Just a peddler, Nyai.”

  “Nonsense. Since when do peddlers ride horses? Your behavior is strange today too. Even if he could rent one, he wouldn’t know how to ride. Did he have a pigtail?”

  Darsam, very unusually, laughed boisterously for a second time, trying to hide something. Then:

  “Since when has Nyai lost faith in Darsam?” He wiped his mustache with the back of his arm.

  “Darsam! You’re really strange today.”

  And the Madurese fighter laughed again, saluted, and left without another word.

  “He’s hiding something!” Mama mumbled. “I feel more and more uneasy. Let’s go inside.”

  Unable anymore to read, she stood up and went inside.

  “Darsam, and Mama too, Mas, they’re behaving so strangely,” said Annelies. “Why?”

  “How do I know? Let’s go inside.”

  Annelies went in. I stood there surveying the scene, and then I saw Darsam running towards the main gate with his unsheathed machete in his right hand. And outside, for just a moment, I glimpsed Fatso walking along the road in the direction of Surabaya. He was wearing an ivory-yellow suit, white hat, and white shoes, and was carrying a cane, like someone out on a picnic. My earlier suspicion, that he could be a Majoor der Chineezen, no longer held.