Child of All Nations

  All the employees, workers, and other ordinary citizens held the same hope. The manager of the sugar mill was a powerful man in Tulangan, more powerful than the bupati, assistant resident, or even the resident. He was a little king. People said his wage was bigger than that of the governor-general. Though people didn’t bow down and abase themselves before him, as they had to before a bupati or other Native official, his word was law. The old people of the village could still tell the story of the first tuan besar kuasa, the one Herman Mellema replaced, and how he ordered the execution of seven farmers who rebelled and refused to surrender their land. Five others had died of fright after carrying out orders to remove stones from the temples to be used as the foundation of giant constructions for the factory.

  The laugh of a manager is something that puts people at ease; his threat is something else: The plantation supervisors, foremen, office employees, even the coolies, will obey him without question. At the crook of his finger, people will come; with just a grunt, people can be knocked to the ground.

  The manager of the sugar mill, the tuan besar kuasa: a man with a tongue of fire.

  So it was the time for preparations for the arrival of the new manager. The hand-over ceremony was attended by the controller and the bupati of Sidoarjo. Two hours after the ceremony, the new and the old managers came out from the office and went among the festive throng. The gong sounded, and the party began. At the same time, carriages were readied to escort the old manager as he left Tulangan.

  The party itself was kept going with hired dancers, with palm wine, and with dice and brawling.

  The new tuan manager was called Frits Homerus Vlekkenbaaij. He accompanied his predecessor as far as Sidoarjo railway station. As soon as he returned he strode into the partying crowd. Through an interpreter he rebuked: “What kind of infidel’s party is this? Such noise—barbaric! Everyone leave! Go! Quickly!”

  Everyone realized at once that gloomy clouds hovered before them.

  Mijnheer Frits Homerus Vlekkenbaaij was short, even compared to Natives. His body was like a ball, with a bloated stomach—the stomach of someone who always sat and did no physical work. His eyes were deep, and peered out from under his eyelids, a greenish yellow, but clear, like marbles. He was the first European to appear there in public wearing short-sleeved shirts and short trousers, so that his dense, long, blond body hair was visible. He was bald; his cheeks were round and loose. His heavily lidded eyes gave the impression that he never slept at the right time. He kept to himself, avoiding speech except to spray abuse at people.

  Not only the coolies and the villagers, but especially the office employees and foremen were frightened of his power. It was the Mixed-Blood employees who whispered to the villagers and coolies: The new Tuan was Plikemboh—“Ugly Penis.” The name stuck. The women would look away or giggle, covering their mouths, whenever they heard that name.

  From the time of the party a tense atmosphere oppressed all of Tulangan—villagers, employees, and laborers. Plikemboh seemed capable of doing anything to anyone—Native, Pure, or Mixed-Blood. The workers and office employees reacted in their normal way: They would accept any treatment as long as they weren’t dismissed.

  Plikemboh understood that people were afraid of him. He was pleased. Now he was really someone. He was feared; he was master. He didn’t have to work. Fear was his trusted foreman. He was rarely seen at his desk. His only order during the whole first month was: Tighten the supervision over the manufacture of spirits and hard drink.

  Plikemboh was a drinker and a drunkard. Yet he never drank what he had manufactured himself. So one or two sample bottles of drink from his own factory were brought to him, and he would sniff them to assess their alcohol content.

  In the second month he started to wander around outside the complex. He would visit the cane plantations and the factory’s electric plant. He liked to stand watching the plant’s steam generator, proud that it was the very first in the Surabaya area. He would walk around carrying an air rifle with which he hunted birds. He didn’t ride horses—unusual for a sugar-mill manager.

  In the late afternoons he could be seen sitting in front of his house, perhaps half drunk, with the air rifle on his table. He would take aim and shoot at any Native child who passed by on the street. Soon all the children were afraid of him. They would run away as soon as he appeared in the distance, carrying his rifle. So began the practice that mothers would use his name to frighten disobedient children.

  Whenever he spent time outdoors, his face went very red, like that of a hen about to lay an egg. His head hardly ever turned, as if it were just a piece of twisted firewood.

  Everyone knew he was a bad shot. He never took home a single bird. Whenever he went hunting a black leather bag hung from his shoulder. People guessed the bag had never held a bird, only a bottle of brandy.

  After realizing that the birds would always elude his black leather bag, Plikemboh became bored with his rifle. Now he discovered a new kind of hunting: entering the homes of the Natives who lived near the factory complex, opening the doors to their rooms, their cupboards, even their cooking pots and rice steamers. His reasoning was that Natives could not be trusted; they were all thieves or half thieves, smugglers of contraband, manufacturers of illegal whisky. He never found what he was looking for. Then he began to worry the women. People began to lock their doors and wouldn’t open them even if he pounded on the door.

  Both men and women felt disgust whenever near Tuan Plikemboh. Not just because of his appearance; more so because of his character. Wherever he was present, people felt the air to be polluted. His body hair, his bloatedness, his transparent eyes, his glistening baldness…

  One day Djumilah cried out, startled. Plikemboh had entered the house, perhaps through a window. Djumilah ran to the back part of the house, into the kitchen. All the boys were at school. The girls were in the kitchen. Plikemboh came into the kitchen too. The girls, in a daze, scattered in every direction, running faster even than their mother.

  Djumilah ran out into the back yard. She shivered; she was unable to speak. She saw Surati pulling up water from the well, ready to do the family washing. Her mother signaled her to run. The girl didn’t understand. Plikemboh had rushed out and reached the well. Now he stood before Surati, who was shaking with fear, unable to stand up any longer.

  In the distance she could hear Djumilah calling for help. People came running. Seeing Tuan Besar Kuasa up to one of his tricks again, they all disappeared, guarding their own fates.

  Fear and revulsion made Surati shiver and collapse into a squat. Seeing this, Plikemboh didn’t know what to do. He slunk away behind the other houses and disappeared from view.

  Only then did the neighbors return to Surati. They picked her up and carried her to the bench in the kitchen and changed her wet, stinking kain. Her face was white and she still couldn’t speak.

  The tuan manager, carrying his shoulder bag, descended again to the main road and returned to his office. From his books he found out that house number fifteen was occupied by the Sastro Kassier family. He summoned the paymaster. Before coming to the Indies he had prepared himself by learning a little Malay from a retired controller. The conversation took place in Malay:

  “You are Sastro Kassier?”

  “Yes, Tuan Besar Kuasa.”

  “You are the paymaster here?”

  “Yes, Tuan Besar.”

  “You have worked here a long time?”

  “More than fourteen years, Tuan Besar Kuasa.”

  “How many wives to you have?”

  “Only one, Tuan Besar Kuasa.”

  “Liar. No Javanese like you has only one wife.”

  “On my life, Tuan Besar Kuasa, only one.”

  “How many children?”

  “Eight, Tuan Besar.”

  “Good. Do you have a virgin daughter?”

  Sastro Kassier sat up, startled. The father in him warned him to be careful. The beginning of some catastrophe hovered before his soul??
?s eye. But there was no way to avoid answering. All his children were listed in the company books. He would lose his position straight away if he was discovered to be lying. He admitted he did have one. Plikemboh asked about her age, her schooling, everything about Surati except her name.

  “Good. You can go now.”

  Sastro Kassier returned to his work. He was anxious. He thought of sending his daughter away to Wonokromo. Impossible. From the Eurasian-owned Malay-language press, he knew that Sanikem herself was in trouble. His youngest niece, Annelies, was under the threat of being taken off to the Netherlands under guardianship. He knew too what a big affair that had become. He had wanted to go to Wonokromo to ask about it and at least to show his sympathy. He had hesitated, and ended up not leaving. Now it was impossible to take Surati there.

  In the afternoon, after work, he was summoned again by Tuan Manager. He was received in Plikemboh’s house. He was served cakes and alcohol. He couldn’t refuse any of the things offered to him, afraid of exciting Plikemboh’s wrath. All that he drank and ate there he felt was poisoning him, destroying his whole world.

  Not a single person knows what they said to each other. Neither Sastro Kassier nor Plikemboh has ever spoken about it to anyone else.

  It was evening when he returned home. His wife greeted him roughly—the first time he had ever been treated that way by her: “Look out, you, if you try anything crazy with that Plikemboh!” she threatened.

  He realized that the whole of Tulangan knew what was happening. That night he didn’t eat, but went straight to his room. He couldn’t sleep. His eyes blinked open and shut like those of an old doll.

  No paymaster was ever popular. It was the same with Sastro Kassier. The laborers suspected, correctly, that he and the foremen conspired to take a ten percent cut from their wages. None of the coolies could read or write. They could only frown, distrust, hate, make threats behind the backs of those concerned. Sastro Kassier indeed needed the extra money—for gambling and to pay for his mistresses, an honored custom among Native employees.

  But one’s position—that was everything to a Native who was neither farmer nor tradesman. His wealth might be destroyed, his family shattered, his name dishonored, but his position must be saved. It was not just his livelihood; with it also went honor and self-respect. People would fight, pray, fast, libel, lie, force their bones to the limit, bring disaster down on others, all for Position. People were prepared to give up anything for Position, because, with it, all might be redeemed. The closer Position took a person to the Europeans, the more he was respected, even if all he owned was his one blangkon hat. Europeans were the symbol of unlimited power, and power brings money. They had defeated the kings, the sultans, and the princes of Java, the holymen and the warriors. They subjugated men and nature without the slightest quiver of fear.

  The next morning Paiman alias Sastro Kassier was called before Plikemboh again. Once again their conversation remained a secret to themselves. That night Sastro Kassier did not come home. He walked and walked through the villages to the north of Tulangan, like a burglar without a job. He thought and he didn’t think. He prayed and then forgot what he prayed for. He did not make the rounds of his mistresses. He did not pick up the cards. He had resolved to cleanse himself of all such pollution. He neither drank nor ate. He walked and walked. He did not sleep, just walked.

  He went back to his office after bathing in the river and meditated on top of a rock. He would work through the day without visiting home. As soon as he unlocked the door to his office, a messenger arrived: “An order from Tuan Besar Kuasa: As soon as Ndoro Paymaster arrives he must report immediately.”

  His meditation and ascetic exercises of the night before had not been blessed. Already Plikemboh was calling for him. His heart was still in turmoil. Now people would find out what the two of them talked about. A young coolie was scrubbing the office floor with carbolic acid.

  “Eh, Sastro Kassier have you come up with an idea yet?”

  “Not yet, Tuan Besar Kuasa,” he answered.

  “Why not?” He mispronounced his Malay.

  “I haven’t dared discuss it with my wife, Tuan Besar.”

  “Don’t you know yet who Vlekkenbaaij is?”

  “I know, Tuan Besar, I know very well.”

  “How come then you haven’t spoken with your wife yet?” he said in even worse Malay.

  “Afraid, Tuan Besar.”

  “And not afraid of me?”

  Sastro Kassier was afraid of them both. He didn’t answer.

  “So then bring this wife of yours to see me. Why are you still here? Bring her to me! Get going!”

  “She’s gone, Tuan Besar, gone to rest at her mother-in-law’s.”

  Vlekkenbaaij’s eyes popped out. His forefinger wagged up and down as it pointed threateningly: “Watch out if you’re lying. You’ll regret it later. Get to work!”

  Sastro Kassier went to his work. His anxiety did not prevent him from preparing his accounts. Tomorrow, Saturday, was payday. After finishing this, he recklessly reported sick and went home early.

  His wife was not at all surprised to see her husband not sleeping at home. That indeed was the way of a man with position. She would never ask where he’d been. It was not the custom of a wife to challenge a husband who had position. Indeed even without her ever challenging him, she could be kicked out without a formal divorce. In some matters, the wife of a man with position might dare ask something, but never concerning her husband’s “leisure.” She was silent, silent in every way, feeling indeed inadequate in her inability to serve her husband as he desired.

  Now Djumilah prepared something to eat, even though the day was still young. But Sastro Kassier did not eat. He pulled his wife over and ordered her to sit on the chair beside him.

  “Don’t think you can trick me.” She erected battlements around her daughter.

  “He wants to see you.”

  “No.” Djumilah knew she would be powerless once faced with Plikemboh himself.

  “It’s true; he wants to see you.”

  “I cannot. Rather than my child be sold…shameful! Times have changed. That kind of thing shouldn’t happen anymore.”

  Sastro Kassier knew his wife’s answer was a challenge to divorce her. “Then you should go away.”

  “No. I will defend my daughter.”

  “Surati!” called Sastro Kassier. The girl came out and squatted, bowing before her father. “You know what’s happened. What do you say?”

  “Pay no attention to your father!” Djumilah incited her daughter. “You mustn’t be like Sanikem, your aunt. May God forgive her.”

  “Sanikem is now richer than the Queen of Solo,” Sastro Kassier contradicted. “Surati could be rich like that too. Well, Rati?”

  “The mouth of Satan! Don’t answer, Child, don’t!”

  “Yes, she doesn’t have to answer. But both of you have a duty to understand how things are.”

  “Don’t listen.”

  “Tuan Besar Kuasa,” Sastro Kassier went on, not heeding the protests of his wife, “has ordered that I hand you, Surati, over to him. He wants to take you as his mistress. That’s enough. That’s all you need to know from your father. It’s up to you whether you want to reject him or accept. If you don’t want to answer, that’s all right too.”

  Surati left.

  “Satan!” cursed Djumilah. “Do you think I gave birth to her so she could become someone’s concubine? You were always a man without backbone!”

  “Don’t make me angry. I’m still meditating, trying to find an answer to this.” Now it was Sastro Kassier who shouted.

  “Meditation! No need to meditate to know the answer: No! and the whole thing is over.”

  “It’s not as simple as that.”

  “Are you afraid of becoming a farmer? A trader at the market? Ashamed? If I were the man, that would be my answer: no!”

  “What does a woman know? Your world is no more than the tamarind seed. A wrong step and all of th
is could fall apart.”

  The whole day Sastro Kassier did not eat or drink. He left the house and walked and walked as he had the day before, across the dikes around the infertile paddy land which the village people still owned. The most fertile lands, all of them, had been taken over, rented by the mill every cane season, the contract renewed every eighteen months. Peasant farmers who rebelled courted disaster; the factory also controlled the civil service right down to the village officials.

  The time of the full moon had passed. The night was shimmering with the half-light of its yellowish glow. The wind blew strongly. Sastro Kassier took no notice of the wind, of the moon, of himself. A sugar-mill official was one of the elect, one of the beloved of God. If that were not so, then could not any Native become a paymaster? Now he longed for an answer, one that didn’t come from a human mouth, but from the realm of the supernatural, through some nonhuman being as an intermediary. Perhaps tonight some supernatural being was roaming the dark like him on this half-lit night. Perhaps this being might whisper the answer to him. And, indeed, if at that moment a goat had stood up on his two hind legs, or squatted, or rolled over, or sat legs tucked under as if at prayer, and spoke, and said: Sastro Kassier, carry out the orders of Tuan Plikemboh, he would carry them out no matter what the consequences. As long as Sastro Kassier himself could not be held responsible for his own deeds, did not have to use his own brain. So long as the sign did not come from a human mouth, such as his own.

  And if that goat said No! he would never do what Plikemboh wanted, no matter what the cost.

  For people like Sastro Kassier, Europeans were only one level below supernatural beings. And Europeans could be found about the place almost any time you wanted one. But he would never dare contradict a European. Like the others, he preferred to hope for a supernatural being. They had to be obeyed as well, but they were much more difficult to find when you needed their advice.

  Sastro Kassier had complete faith that he would not collapse or faint for lack of food or drink. Fasting too was a much-honored practice. But he came across nothing supernatural. As if nothing had happened, he turned up for work as usual the next morning. His duties at the office must be carried out as efficiently as possible.