This Earth of Mankind

  We passed away the night listening to Austrian waltzes on the phonograph. Mama read a book. I don’t know what book. Annelies sat near me without talking. My own thoughts wandered to May Marais. She’d be happy here, I thought. She liked listening to European music. There was no phonograph at home, nor in my lodgings.

  I began to tell them about the little girl who had lost her mother. And the fate of that mother. And the goodness of Jean Marais. And his wisdom. And his simplicity.

  Nyai stopped reading, put the book down in her lap, and listened to my story.

  I continued my story about Jean Marais. One day he heard that his platoon had received orders to attack a village at Blang Kejeren. They departed early and arrived at the village around nine in the morning. Already, some distance from the village, they had let off shots into the air to frighten away opposition so no battle would be necessary. They fired into the air again while resting under the shade of some trees. A while later they set off again, ready to enter the village. The village was already empty. The platoon entered without coming up against any opposition. No one could be found, not even a baby. They started going into the houses and smashing up whatever they could.

  The people had become impoverished during the twenty years of war. There was nothing the soldiers could take as souvenirs. Corporal Telinga ordered that all the houses be burned. Precisely at that moment the Acehnese came into view in the distance, like columns of ants, men and women. They all wore black. They shouted in all sorts of voices, calling to Allah. Then, all of a sudden, a group of young men appeared out of nowhere and attacked Marais’s platoon. They ran amok with their daggers. No one knew where they came from. The rifles had no ammunition left. And the black ants in the distance were getting closer. Picking up their wounded, Telinga’s platoon rushed from the village. Jean Marais was caught in a bamboo trap. A sharp wooden spike pierced his leg. Telinga was also caught in a trap, but it wasn’t so serious. They pulled the wooden spike out of Jean’s leg, and he fainted. They ran. No one could be sure what else the Acehnese had planned. A new band of attackers could appear suddenly at any moment. All they could do was run and continue to run. And take the wounded who could travel. Fifteen days later it was clear that Jean Marais was infected with gangrene at the base of his knee. Several months earlier he had lost his lover; now he was to lose a leg, cut off above the knee.

  “Bring the child here,” said Nyai. “Annelies would like very much to have a little sister. Wouldn’t you, Ann? Oh, no, you don’t need a little sister, you’ve got Minke now.”

  “Ah, Mama,” she exclaimed, embarrassed.

  I was embarrassed too. That was my last chance. I’d tried to build up myself before this remarkable woman as a man with character, as somebody whole. Every time she spoke, my efforts were brought to nothing. My individuality was being hidden by her shadow. And I knew this could not be allowed to go on forever.

  “Mama, permit me to ask.” I started my effort to escape from her shadow. “Mama graduated from which school?”

  “School?” She tilted her head as if spying on the sky, clearing her memory. “As far as I can remember, I’ve never gone to school.”

  “How’s that possible? Mama speaks, reads, and maybe also writes Dutch. How is that possible without schooling?”

  “Why not? Life can give everything to whoever tries to understand and is willing to receive new knowledge.”

  Her answer truly startled me. Such words had never been spoken by my teachers.

  That night I found it difficult to sleep. My thoughts worked hard trying to understand this woman. Outsiders viewed her as only a nyai, a concubine. Or people respected her only because of her wealth. I saw her from yet another angle: from all that she was capable of doing, from everything she said. I think Jean Marais was right: You must first of all think justly. Don’t sit in judgment over others when you don’t know the truth of the matter.

  There are many outstanding women. But I have met Nyai Ontosoroh. According to Jean Marais’s stories, Acehnese women used to descend into the battlefield to fight the Indies Army, ready to die beside their men. So too in Bali. In my own birthplace women peasants worked side by side with the men in the paddy fields. Yet none of these was like Mama—she knew more than just the world of her own village.

  And all my school friends knew too that there was another outstanding Native woman, a maiden, a year older than me. She was the daughter of the Bupati of J, the first Native woman to write in Dutch. Her writing had even been published in literary magazines in Batavia. She was seventeen when her first writings were published, writings in a language other than her mother tongue. Half of my friends denied the accuracy of these reports. How was it possible that a Native, a girl to boot, only an E.L.S. graduate, could write and articulate her opinions in the European manner, let alone have them published in a scholarly magazine? But I believed it and must believe it; it was something that strengthened my belief that I too could do what she had done. Hadn’t I already proved that I could do it? Even if still just initial attempts and in a very small way? It was indeed her example that stimulated me to write.

  And now I was coming to know this older woman. She doesn’t write articles but she is expert in seizing people in her grasp. She runs a big, European-type firm. She confronts her own eldest son, controls her master, Herman Mellema, trains her youngest child to be a future administrator, Annelies Mellema—the beautiful maiden of whom all men dream.

  I would study this strange and frightening family. And one day I’d write.

  5

  I could not restrain my curiosity to know who this extraordinary Nyai Ontosoroh really was. It was only several months later that I found out from Annelies the story about her mother. After reordering, it came out as follows:

  You must surely remember your first visit here, Mas? Who could forget it? Certainly not me. Not in all my life. You trembled as you kissed me in front of Mama. I trembled too. If I hadn’t been dragged away by Mama I’d still be standing numb on the steps. Then the carriage dragged you away from me.

  Your kiss felt hot on my cheeks. I ran to my room and examined my face in the mirror. Nothing had changed. There had been no chili paste with dinner that night, just a little pepper. Why were my cheeks so hot? I scrubbed and I rubbed. They were still hot. Wherever I sent my eyes off wandering they always ended up colliding with yours.

  Had I gone mad? Why was it always you that appeared, Mas? Why did I suddenly feel this loss after you went away?

  I changed into my nightclothes and put out the candles, got into bed. But the darkness only made your face clearer. I wanted to hold your hand as I had that afternoon. But your hands were not there. I turned onto my left side, then onto my right, but I still couldn’t sleep, hour after hour. I felt there was a pair of hands within my breast whose fingers were tickling me, agitating me. I felt I needed to act. But what? I didn’t know. I threw off the blanket and pillow and left the room.

  I charged into Mama’s room without knocking. As usual, she hadn’t gone to bed. She was sitting at her table, reading. She looked at me, closed the book, and I caught a glimpse of the title, Nyai Dasima.

  “What’s the book, Mama?”

  She put the object into the cabinet.

  “Why aren’t you asleep?”

  “I want to sleep with Mama tonight.”

  “A girl old as you, and still wanting to sleep with your mother?”

  “Let me, Mama.”

  “Over there, climb up first!”

  I got into the bed. Mama went downstairs to check the doors and windows. Then she came up again, locked the door, pulled down the mosquito net, and put out the candle. Pitch black in the room.

  Near her I felt more calm, full of impatient hope, waiting for her words about you, Mas.

  “Well, Annelies,” she began, “why are you afraid to sleep by yourself? Aren’t you grown up by now?”

  “Mama, has Mama ever been happy?”

  “Even if for only a moment and only a
little, everyone has been happy, Ann.”

  “Are you happy now, Mama?”

  “I don’t know about now. All there is now is worry. It has nothing to do with the happiness you’re asking about. What does it matter if I am happy or not? It’s you I worry about. I want to see you happy.”

  I embraced Mama and I kissed her in the darkness. She was always so good to me. I believed there was no one better.

  “Do you love Mama, Ann?”

  This question, spoken for the first time, brought tears to my eyes, Mas. She had always seemed so hard.

  “Yes, Mama wants to see you happy always. Not ever to feel the pain that I once did. I don’t want you to suffer the loneliness I suffer now: without acquaintances, without friends, let alone really close friends. Why all of a sudden do you bring up happiness?”

  “Don’t ask me, Mama, tell me the story.”

  “Ann, Annelies, perhaps you don’t feel it, but I’ve been deliberately harsh with you so that you would develop the ability to work, so in the future you won’t have to be dependent on your husband, if—may it never happen—your husband turns out like your father.”

  I knew Mama had lost all her respect for Papa. I understood how she felt so I never asked about it. And indeed I wasn’t hoping to hear talk about that. I wanted to know if she had ever felt the way I was feeling at that moment.

  “When did Mama feel very, very happy?”

  “There were many such years after I was with Mr. Mellema, your father.”

  “Then, Mama?”

  “Do you remember when I took you from school? That was when our happiness ended. You’re grown up now, it’s time you knew. It’s best you know what really happened. I’ve been meaning to tell you for several weeks now. The opportunity has never arisen. Are you sleepy?”

  “I’m listening, Mama.”

  “Your father once said earlier, when you were very, very small: A mother must pass on to her daughter everything she will need to know.”

  “In those days. . . .”

  “Yes, Ann, in those days I respected every word that came from your Papa. I remembered them well. I made them my beacons. Then he changed, and became the opposite of everything he had ever taught me.”

  “Papa was clever then, Mama?”

  “Not only clever, but kind. It was he who taught me everything about farming, business, looking after the livestock, the office work. At first I was taught to speak Malay, then to read and write, then after that, Dutch. Your Papa not only taught me, but then also patiently tested everything he’d taught. He made me speak in Dutch with him. Then he taught me to deal with the bank, lawyers, about trade practices, everything that I’ve now begun to teach you.”

  “Why did Papa change so much, Mama?”

  “There was a reason, Ann. Something happened. Just that once, then he lost all his goodness, his cleverness, his intelligence, his skills. Broken, Ann, destroyed in an instant. He became someone else, an animal that could no longer recognize his own children or his wife.”

  Mama didn’t continue her story right away. It was as if the tale was an omen about my future, Mas. The world became more and more still. All that could be heard was our own breathing. Probably, if Mama had not been so hard towards Papa—so Mama told me again and again—who knows what might have happened to me. Perhaps something far, far worse than I could ever imagine.

  “At the time it happened I thought of taking him to a mental hospital. But I hesitated, Ann. What would people think about you later, Ann? If your father was proven to be mad and was declared by the law as ‘under custodial care’? His business, his wealth, and his family would be under the control of an executor appointed by a court of law. Your mama, just a Native, would have no rights over anything, and would not be able to do a thing for her child, you, Ann. All our backbreaking efforts, with never a holiday, would have been in vain. And my giving birth to you, Ann, would have been in vain too, because the law would not acknowledge my motherhood, just because I’m a Native and was not legally married. You understand?”

  “Mama!” I whispered. I’d never dreamed the troubles she faced had been so great.

  “Even permission for you to marry would not come from me, but from that executor—neither kith nor kin. By taking your papa to a mental hospital, by involving the courts, the condition of your papa would become public knowledge, the public would. . . you, Ann, your fate then, Ann. No!”

  “But why would I suffer, Mama?”

  “Don’t you understand? What would happen to you if everybody knew that you were the daughter of a crazy man? How would we behave in front of everybody?”

  I hid my head in the crook of her arm, like a chick.

  “His madness was not hereditary,” she said to reassure me. “He became so because of a misfortune. But people may not understand that, and you could be thought to have the same lineage.” I became frightened. “That’s why I’ve let him be. I know where he’s hiding. As long as no one else knows.”

  Slowly my own problem was pushed aside by my pity for Papa.

  “Let me, Mama, let me look after Papa.”

  “He doesn’t know you.”

  “But he’s my papa, Mama.”

  “Shhh! Pity is only for those who are conscious of their condition. You need pity, not him—the child of someone like him. Ann, you must understand: He is no longer a human being. The closer you are to him, the more your life is threatened by ruin. He has become an animal who can no longer tell good from evil. He’s no longer capable of any service to his fellow human beings. It’s over, don’t ask about him again.”

  I put to sleep my desire to know more. Whenever Mama was serious like that, it wasn’t wise to press her further. I wasn’t acquainted with any other mothers and children. Both of us had no friends, no comrades. Life as an employer dealing with workers, and as a business person dealing with customers, surrounded by people with no concerns besides business, had left me incapable of making comparisons. I didn’t know how other Indos lived. Mama not only didn’t allow me to mix sociably, but did not ever leave me the time that would have made it possible. Mama was the only greatness and power that I knew.

  “You must understand, don’t forget it for as long as you live, the two of us must strive with all our might to make sure no one ever knows that you are the child of a man who has lost his mind.” Mama closed the matter.

  We were both silent. I didn’t know what she was thinking about or imagining. Within my breast those fingers began tickling again. I couldn’t stand it. She still hadn’t spoken about you, Mas. Did she approve of you or not, Mas? Or were you just to be considered another new factor in the business?

  If felt as if the darkness did not exist. Only you existed. Nothing besides you! I had to bring to an end this unpleasant story of Mama’s.

  “Mama, tell me how you met and then how it was when you lived with Papa.”

  “All right, Ann. But don’t be shocked. You are a spoiled and happy child compared with your mama when she was younger. All right, I’ll tell you.”

  And she began her story:

  * * *

  I had an elder brother, Paiman. He was born on the market day of Paing, so he was named with the first syllable Pai. I was three years younger, and named Sanikem. My father changed his name after he was married to Sastrotomo. The neighbors used to say the name meant the foremost scribe.

  People said that my father was very industrious. He was respected as the only person in village who could read and write, the sort of reading and writing used in offices. But he wasn’t satisfied with just being a clerk in the factory. He dreamed of a higher post, even though the job he held was quite a respected one. He no longer needed to hoe the ground or plow or labor, or plant or harvest sugar cane.

  My father had many younger brothers and sisters as well as cousins. As a clerk he had great difficulty in getting them jobs at the factory. A higher post would have made it easier, and also it would have raised him up higher in the eyes of the world, especially
as he wanted his relations to be able to work in the factory as something more than just laborers and coolies. At the very least they should be foremen. You didn’t need a blood relative as a clerk to get jobs as coolies—anybody could get a job as a coolie as long as the foreman agreed.

  He worked diligently and became even more diligent for more than ten years. But still no promotion, though his salary and commission rose every year. So he tried every other way: the traditional Javanese magic men, the dukuns; magic formulas; he even went on rice fasts, Monday and Thursday fasts. Still no result.

  He dreamed of becoming paymaster: cashier, holder of the cash of the Tulangan sugar factory in Sidoardjo. And who did not have business with the factory paymaster? There were the cane foremen: They came to receive their money and leave their thumbprints. If the foreman refused to accept a toll on the coolies’ wages, he could withhold the foreman’s gang’s weekly wages. As paymaster he would be a big man in Tulangan. Merchants would bow down in respect. The Pure and Mixed-Blood tuans would greet him in Malay. The stroke of his pen meant money! He would be counted among the powerful in the factory. People would listen to his words—“Sit down on the bench there”—in order to receive their money from his hands.

  Pathetic. These dreams did not bring him a rise in position, respect, or esteem. On the contrary, they brought hatred and disgust. And the position of paymaster remained hanging in limbo, far away. His crawling behavior, which often harmed his friends, caused him to be cut off from society. He was isolated in the midst of his own world. But he didn’t care. He was indeed hard-hearted. His trust in the generosity and protection of the white-skinned tuans could not be broken. People were sickened to see the things he did to get the Dutch tuans to come to his house. One or two did turn up and he served them with everything that pleased them.

  But the post of paymaster still did not come his way.

  He even went as far as using a dukun magic man and ascetic practices to cast a spell on the tuan administrator, the Tuan Besar Kuasa, the “Great, Powerful Tuan,” to come to the house. Also to no avail. On the other hand, he often visited the Tuan’s house, not to see the official on some business but to help with the manual work in the back of the house! The tuan administrator never took any notice.