Child of All Nations

  The morning dew woke him. In some obscure way, he felt that the dew had eased his fever. As the sun began to rise, he found himself approached by an old man. He heard the old man’s voice, full of compassion, whisper: “So young as this! It’s not the right time for you to die yet, Child. You probably have never been out of our village before now.”

  The man had a white beard and mustache. Paiman wanted very much to ask for help, but even his tongue would not work for him.

  He dimly saw the old grandfather take down his woven rattan shoulder bag. From inside it he took a bottle. He poured something into Paiman’s mouth, then went away. About four hours later, he returned and poured liquid from the bottle into Paiman’s mouth once more. Like some god who had descended from heaven, the old man looked healthy and fresh amid the squalor of the epidemic. There was no fear in his face.

  The bottle was empty. He put it back in his bag.

  Paiman was saved because of that liquid. He didn’t know what the old man had made him drink; it tasted like kerosene. Several more times the old man returned to minister to him.

  That was Paiman, who was now called Sastro Kassier, and he was more successful than Sastrotomo, his father, the father of Sanikem alias Nyai Ontosoroh.

  Sastrotomo never succeeded in becoming paymaster as he had hoped. He was never thought worthy of consideration. Because he knew that the new manager would not adhere to the agreement made between Sastrotomo and Herman Mellema, Mellema had gone to Tulangan to ask that Sastrotomo’s son be taken on as an apprentice clerk. He was to be trained so that later he could become paymaster. Mellema did not tell Mama about this act of conscience.

  The new manager of the sugar factory had come to Wonokromo a few times. Herman Mellema used such opportunities to pass on “aid” to his “brother-in-law.” It was through such visits that Mama eventually found out: Her elder brother had quickly advanced from being a clerk to an apprentice cashier and then had become full paymaster.

  Silently, Mama felt proud to have a brother who had achieved such a high position—the only Native paymaster in a sugar factory in all of Java.

  On the day of his promotion, the factory put on a small celebration. Paiman, who had changed his name to Sastrowongso—meaning descendant or with the blood of a scribe—when he married, announced another name change: Sastro Kassier with two s’s. His new name was published in the newspapers as a determination of the governor-general.

  He had eight children.

  Several times Paiman alias Sastrowongso alias Sastro Kassier came to Wonokromo. Mama always received him happily. But as time went on, his visits became less and less frequent. His own position was becoming stronger. After Herman Mellema’s death, he was never seen again at Wonokromo.

  He did come with his whole family when Annelies and I were married. That time too, Mama received him very affably. His youngest child, a girl, was two or three years younger than Annelies. Twice I saw her from a distance. I guessed that was how Sanikem had looked when she was a girl. Her body, as well as her face, eyes, lips, and nose, were all exactly the same.

  From the moment we boarded the train I suspected: Perhaps Mama isn’t going to Sidoarjo for a holiday but to ask for Sastro Kassier’s permission for his youngest daughter, Surati, and me to marry. No, Ma, it would be impossible for Minke to marry and to live with a woman who was still pure Javanese. Impossible, Ma. I don’t mean to insult my mother or any woman who is still fully Javanese in her thoughts and customs. But I must make my own choice. You too, Ma, would never be able to take a husband who was fully a Native. European ideas, whether a little or a lot, have changed the way we look at things, have provided us with new requirements that must be met. And the matter of husband and wife wasn’t just one of man and woman. You know that too, Ma. If the purpose of this visit is indeed to propose on my behalf—however beautiful and honorable are your intentions—you must forgive me: I cannot marry her. I just couldn’t do it!

  These suspicions and presentiments made me anxious, vigilant. On the other hand Mama seemed quite merry, like a young girl. Like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon, she lost that gloomy fearsomeness that had dominated her all this time. She was becoming more cheerful; she laughed, smiled, and chattered. She was no longer engrossed in her business, which was soon to be stolen away by Maurits Mellema.

  There was no one from Sastro Kassier’s family to meet us at the station. Mama had not told them of our visit. Kommer hailed a carriage and offered to escort us to Tulangan. Mama laughed and refused. “Tulangan is still a long way from here, Mr. Kommer.”

  “I know Tulangan, Nyai.”

  “Yes?”

  “It is no more than five or six miles,” he said.

  “You can come and visit if you like. But not now, please.” And our carriage trotted off towards Tulangan.

  Sugar cane, sugar cane, sugar cane for almost the whole length of our journey. The unshirted farmers stopped along the road to take a look at who was riding in the carriage. Small, stark-naked children, wet-nosed, filthy, were playing along the edge of the road, looking after livestock. I would have been among them had I been born into a farmer’s family.

  “This is what my country is like, Child. Only cane. It is true what you said; everything revolves around sugar, whether evil or dreams. There are more than ten sugar mills in my country, Nyo. When the factory starts to mill, there’s a big festival, nothing but festivals and parties. Everyone stakes their wealth and their reputations as fighters. Everywhere people lie sprawled in the streets, drunk. And on the gambling mats, children, wives, young brothers and sisters, all change hands as the wages of bets. You need to have a look at one sometime. It’s a pity the milling season isn’t about to start.”

  The driver tried to turn around to catch the words he couldn’t understand. He asked, “Yes, Ndoro?”

  “No, Man, I wasn’t speaking to you.”

  I was amazed that Mama followed Dutch practice and called the driver Man. The word did indeed mean man or person, yet I sensed that it still contained a derogatory element: It was used only when talking to lower-class men. The problem was that there was no neutral way to speak to such people in Javanese and Malay. Perhaps this is an aspect of the poverty of my mother tongue, a poverty that forces people to become accustomed to constantly degrading others. Why does my mind go crazy like this? Why won’t it stop looking for work?

  “Tomorrow or the day after, Child, you can take a look at the villages. Didn’t you say yesterday that Kommer had accused you of not knowing your own people? Actually I feel he was accusing me too. He is not totally mistaken. Perhaps he was a bit extreme, but I understand what he meant. He loves all that is Native so much, except their deficiencies and ignorance. He loves all that was ever possessed, created, or known by his mother’s ancestors. On the train, he spoke with tremendous enthusiasm about the ancient Hindu temples. He said that he once invited Jean Marais to go on a trip with him to see some. Jean laughed. He didn’t understand the significance of these temples. Kommer tried to explain. Jean only laughed more. Kommer became cranky, and took his revenge by belittling the monuments of France that the rest of the world so glorifies.”

  Not an interesting subject. Suddenly Mama asked, “Have you ever seen one of these temples? Neither have I. They were built to last forever; there must be something about them that their builders wanted to immortalize.”

  The conversation was becoming even less interesting.

  “Have you ever read anything about Paris? about France?”

  “Nothing specifically, no, Ma.”

  “I don’t know why, but sometimes that country interests me very much. I can’t imagine what it is like, but I’m still interested.”

  Perhaps it was Jean Marais that Mama was really interested in. But I didn’t say anything.

  “And Kommer?”

  “What about Kommer?”

  “What do you think of him?” I asked, fishing.

  “He has a lot of enthusiasm. That’s all. In a few years, f
ive or ten perhaps, you will far outshine him.”

  “Ma, I don’t mean that.”

  “Shh! You’d be pleased if I accepted his proposal?”

  “What is it that Ma wants?” Mama’s face went red like that of a blushing virgin. How happy she was at that moment.

  It seemed that Sastro Kassier was very well known in Sidoarjo. The carriage driver knew exactly where his house was. It was a stone house, a respectable house. It was located on the Tulangan sugar-mill complex. Sastro Kassier was the only Native to have a house inside the complex.

  The front door was closed, but the windows were open. Beyond the curtains we could see a reception area that wasn’t at all small, and furniture one usually finds in the houses of Europeans. The differences were few: No books were in evidence, whereas in a European house they usually took pride of place among the furniture.

  “Yu! Yu Djumilah!” Nyai called out several times. She was calling for her sister-in-law, the wife of Sastro Kassier. I had never seen her, though she had come to my wedding, but I knew her husband.

  A woman, looking much older than Mama, opened the door. She stood there not understanding what was happening.

  “Yu Milah, have you forgotten me? Sanikem?”

  “Aiai! Sis Ikem, is this Sis Ikem? Come in. Come in. Still so young too?” She ran back and forth welcoming us, and invited us to sit on the settee of which they were so proud.

  “Yes, this is how we live. Please don’t compare it to your house, Sis Ikem.”

  The carriage driver took down all our things and carried them inside the house. Djumilah herself prepared a room. She came back into the parlor and began again: “Yes, just a simple room, please don’t be disappointed.” She always spoke in Javanese, the only language she knew. “You must be very tired. Let me get you something to drink,” and she disappeared to the back.

  Not long after that a pockmarked girl came out, bending and bowing as she brought out a tray of drinks. She went down on her knees as she approached us.

  From the back came Djumilah’s voice: “Have a drink, Sis. There just happens to be water boiling.”

  The pockmarked girl put the drinks out on the table, shifting them to their proper places.

  Nyai got up from her chair and had a look around. Above one of the doors were two pictures of Her Majesty Wilhelmina, a sign that two graduates from the Factory School lived here. No doubt two of Sastro Kassier’s children, even though it was unusual for children—boys or girls—from small towns like Tulangan to go to school.

  After having a good look around, Nyai went to the other room. I could hear Djumilah’s voice, loud and harsh, but friendly: “Yes, Sis, this shirt was woven in Gedangan. There are no weavers in Tulangan. There is no cotton grown here. Very nice?” Laughter. “If you’d like, I’ll order one for you later.… Yes, yes, I’m amazed too, Sis, why the factories here don’t want to make shirts like this. They’d be much better, too, of course.”

  They came out together. Then Djumilah took Mama’s suitcase and my suitcase into a room. I looked at Mama for a second. I heard her hiss: “Stupid woman!”

  The basket of presents for the family had been carted into the kitchen by the carriage driver.

  As soon as Djumilah reemerged from the room, she said: “Ah, you’ve stayed young, Sis Ikem. Sir, please feel free to change your clothes and rest up.”

  “I want to see out the back first.” Nyai stood up again and Djumilah took her to the back part of the house.

  I was left alone there with my heart in turmoil—I was thought to be Mama’s new man! Perhaps worse than that: the kept man of a nyai. Why didn’t Mama put things right straight away when only one room was prepared? Why did she merely hiss “stupid woman”? I laughed, seeing the funny side of it. At least it would be good material for a story.

  They came in again and sat down, still chattering away and laughing about I don’t know what. I was silent, meditating on what I heard. Usually the male guest is received by the man of the house in the front parlor and the female guests by his wife in the back parlor or kitchen. The host wasn’t there, so I was now included among the female guests. Another funny side to this awful situation.

  The pockmarked girl came in again, bowing and bending as before. Now she put out some of the sponge cake we had brought from Wonokromo. At that moment Mama put the following question to Djumilah: “Elder Sister, where is Surati? I didn’t see her out the back there just now.”

  “Surati? Come here,” she shouted shrilly. “Even your auntie doesn’t recognize you anymore!”

  The pockmarked girl, curling her lip, bowed down: “It is I, Surati,” she whispered. “Yes, Aunt, I am now pocked like this.”

  I too was startled. This was Surati, that pretty girl I had seen twice before. Marked with big broad pocks, some deep and blackish.

  “Alah Niece.” Nyai stood up and pulled the girl up too. “How could this happen to you?”

  “It is my fate, Aunt.”

  “It was her father’s doing, Sis Ikem’s own brother, a man with no backbone. He wanted to follow in Sastrotomo’s footsteps, and sell his own daughter to the Tuan Besar Kuasa factory manager!” Djumilah burst out.

  “What? Paiman?” Nyai was suddenly in a fury. “Paiman could do that to his daughter? Didn’t he know what I had to suffer? Sit here, Niece!”

  Surati sat down, bowing her head as custom required a young girl to do before her elders, especially before a man she had never met before.

  Djumilah began to screech out curses on her husband, like a stream of river water that had found a free path in the steepest part of a gully. Every now and then her words would be punctuated by a shrill shout from Nyai: “A child as pretty as she, as sweet as she, look how she is now!”

  Silently I followed the three women’s conversation. Their questions and answers provided the structure of a story. Mama was overcome by the fire of her emotions. Back here in the environment from which she originally came, she seemed for a moment no more educated than Djumilah, thrown about by waves of extreme emotion while Surati told her the story as if it were the story of someone else’s life; as though she had never felt sorrow or regret at the loss of her beauty.

  They kept on talking. Mama groaned, accused, attacked; she laughed and smiled no more. The experiences of this once-beautiful blossom of Tulangan, the story of how she came to be pockmarked like this, unattractive to anyone, even to Mama and me, formed the basis of a great short story. It truly moved me and I wanted to write it. I promised myself that I would immortalize her suffering, even if the story was similar to Mama’s own.

  They talked and talked for more than an hour. They forgot I was there with them. Then the factory whistle reminded us all that it was already five o’clock. The cane workers in the fields now knew the working day was over.

  “Ah, Tuan hasn’t been able to rest yet?” Djumilah said in a tone that asked forgiveness. “Sis Ikem, please show Sir into the room.”

  “I see there is another room. He can use that one,” said Nyai.

  “Why must you be separated?” protested Djumilah.

  “Don’t be stupid! This is Annelies’s husband!”

  “Oh, ah, oh, Annelies’s husband! Ya-ya, and how is Annelies—people say she was taken to Holland?”

  “She’s fine, Elder Sister,” Nyai lied.

  “No news yet?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I had better prepare another room.”

  Then I realized: Her own sister looked upon Nyai as a woman of low morals. But at least that unspoken matter was now resolved. I got a room of my own, perhaps Surati’s.

  As I settled into that room, with its tidy bed and clean linen, I began to muse upon how disappointed Nyai must be. She would not try to marry me to Surati now. Her failure was an omen: I would soon be able to escape from Surabaya and Wonokromo.

  Twilight arrived. The lights came on and I suddenly realized: electricity! For several minutes I stood gazing in admiration at the globe that gave off light but b
urned no oil, no gas, no wick. I thought of Edison and I bowed my head in his honor. I had now actually enjoyed two of his discoveries, the phonograph and the electric light bulb. And I was actually seeing an electric light bulb itself, not just a picture in a newspaper or magazine.

  After I bathed, instead of taking the usual afternoon stroll, I began to note down the story of Surati’s life. But I wasn’t able to do it in peace. All of a sudden I heard Mama, running amok with words—and a man’s low voice occasionally responding. Sastro Kassier had arrived home and was feeling Mama’s wrath.

  There was silence at the dinner table that evening and an atmosphere of enmity. I withdrew from the table before the battle began again.

  It was Djumilah’s voice that first broke the silence. “You were always a man without a backbone. Like a wayang shadow puppet that’s lost its stick. It’s lucky there’s not a war on. How would you behave if you had to go to war?”

  “Nothing but the descendant of a slave!” Mama reentered the fray.

  “You keep out of this, Sanikem. You’ve done all right as a nyai,” Paiman alias Sastrowongso alias Kassier answered.

  “No! You’re the one who benefited from my sale as a nyai. You were made a clerk!”

  “But you’re doing all right too!”

  “I’m doing all right now because I’ve worked and fought hard, not because I was made into a nyai! Idiot!”

  I closed the door, and my ears too, and went on writing my notes.

  7

  These are the notes I made about what happened to Surati, rearranged and rounded out with further material:

  The citizens of Tulangan were busy preparing for a farewell party for the tuan manager, tuan besar kuasa. His contract had expired. As soon as his replacement arrived, he would set off for Surabaya among much festivity. He wanted to leave the people with something nice to remember. To the employees whom he was leaving, he kept saying: “May my replacement be better than I. Please help him!”