Thank you, a thousand thanks for all your sincere help and protection. From your son.
And beneath was his name written in Latin script.
There was another letter in the envelope, addressed to me. I translated it also for Mama:
My good friend Minke,
Perhaps this is the only way I can pass on my message to you. I very much need your help. My situation is desperate. Perhaps soon they, my own people, will succeed in having complete control over me.… My mission in Surabaya was too difficult. Now that I will never be able to meet you again, please take the letter which I enclose in this envelope to a man in Betawi, named [and he gave a name]. My apologies, you’ll have to obtain the address from someone else, a man called Dulrakim in Kedungrukem. I don’t remember the address and I can’t get in touch with Dulrakim himself because he’s a sailor and hasn’t been in Surabaya for a while.
Another thing, my friend—don’t send this letter through the mail. You are going to Betawi soon, aren’t you? This person lives there. Say that, right up until the end, I never forgot.
My profound thanks to a friend whom I will never be able to repay for his kindness.
Then I saw the other letter, written in Chinese.
“It seems he knew it was coming, Child,” said Mama in Dutch. “There’s something I didn’t understand though, Child. What is a concession?”
“I’ll look it up in the dictionary later, Ma. I don’t know either.”
Darsam’s eyes went back and forth from Mama to me as he tried to understand what was being said.
“Your guest, Darsam,” Mama said in Madurese, “was forced to write this letter because he could not speak to you. He expressed his great thanks to you. You had been so good to him.”
Darsam’s eyes shone and blinked slowly as he savored Nyai’s words.
“In this world and the next, he would never forget you.”
“That young Chinese, Nyai, he could say that?”
“Why wouldn’t he be able to say something as simple as that, Darsam?”
“He wore a pigtail, Nyai, and would cough his phlegm up and spit it on the ground.”
“And what’s the matter with a pigtail? Anyone with hair can grow one. Cough up and spit out phlegm? Everyone has phlegm. The only difference is that he spits it out, making a noise, and you swallow it secretly.”
“But he mentioned something about the next life,” Darsam protested.
“He was only saying he owed you a thousand thanks, Darsam, in this world and the next.”
“He was just a Chinese, Nyai.”
“Yes, like me—I’m just a Javanese. And a Dutchman is just a Dutchman.”
“He won’t be coming back, Nyai?”
“He won’t be coming back. And so he says his final thank you.”
“Returning to his country, no doubt.”
“To his ancestors.”
“By boat, naturally.”
“In every kind of boat, by every kind of vehicle that is available. Now Darsam, let us hear your report.”
12
Darsam’s report turned out to be quite long. He told it all in Madurese, so I had to get Mama to help me put it down in written form, as it is given here:
The second day after Nyai Ontosoroh’s departure for Tulangan, Mr. Dalmeyer arrived.
As Nyai had ordered, I invited him to work in Nyai’s office. The books and papers that Nyai had prepared I took from the cabinet and put before him on Nyai’s desk. Food and drink were prepared for him and set in the office too.
He read everything, examined the papers page by page.
At four in the afternoon he asked to be shown the cattle pens. I took him out to the back. He counted all the dairy cows and noted the figures down. It shouldn’t have taken long just to count how many cows, how many bulls, how many calves. But he ended up staying there for quite a while after meeting that other “cow.”
Nyai must know who I mean.
So I left him with that saucy Minem girl. What can one do? They had met and got to chatting. Even as master of the house, I was no longer relevant. I left them at the cattle pens.
That girl Minem used to harass Miss Annelies, pressing Miss to make Minem a supervisor over the milking. As soon as Miss left, she began to try to win me over. And she is indeed clever at cajoling, that saucy one. If it hadn’t been for her ever-enlarging stomach with that child inside it, and then not being able to work, and giving birth, she would have kept on harassing Miss forever.
Nyai herself knows what happened: She had her child several months before Miss Annelies went away. Working while she carried and suckled her baby meant that her output fell. There were no grounds to make her a supervisor. But even so, without any hesitation, she began again to press and cajole Miss to make her a supervisor. Miss might even have given in and made her one if she had not gone away all of a sudden.
But that daughter of the devil really has a devil’s tongue. When she saw Nyai and Young Master go off to Sidoarjo, even before anyone had left for work, she came to my house. She paid no heed to my wife and my children, who hadn’t yet been got off to school. She carried her baby with her.
“Look, look at him, Darsam,” she said, pointing to what she was carrying. “Is it right that this baby should be in such a condition when his grandmother is so rich?”
Impudent. Insolent. But even so, it was a startling statement.
“And I’m not even considered worthy to be a supervisor of the milking.”
“Why don’t you hand the baby over to its rich grandmother then?” I asked, pretending not to understand what she was getting at.
“If his grandmother would acknowledge him, that would be easy. But if she won’t?”
Minem had no husband. People said she was a widow. Others said her husband had left her or that she had left her husband. Nyai must still remember her, the one who flirted with the men all the time. The big problem was that she was pretty, her body was quite good, her skin wasn’t too dark. She was very attractive. If she were a good dancer, she would be in demand for sure.
“So who is the child’s father?” I asked her. She smiled coaxingly.
“That’s what happens if you accept just any man,” I went on. “Now the child is an excuse.”
“Not just any man,” she denied, still smiling invitingly. “The father of this child is none other than the son of my employer. Now say it’s just any man.”
“Don’t try any blackmail here,” I warned her.
“Who would dare blackmail Darsam? This is truly Sinyo Robert’s child.”
Nyai, another problem. Actually I didn’t want to tell you. But as I thought it over, I knew I must tell you. Yes, if she was lying, all right, but if she was telling the truth? Whatever else might be the case, if she wasn’t lying, then perhaps indeed that child might have Nyai’s blood. I had to tell you, Nyai.
“Give the child here!” I ordered, and I took the baby from her.
She didn’t object. The baby was dirty with snot and spittle. Seeing how disgusted I was, she wiped the baby with her sash. A boy, Nyai, healthy, plump, but not looked after properly. I somehow felt there was some of Nyai’s blood in him. The face was like that of Miss Annelies. His nose was pointed but the skin was like that of Sinyo’s.
The baby cried when I lifted him from Minem. His eyes were big, Dutch eyes. I became suspicious. Was it true that this was Sinyo’s child or—forgive me, Nyai—Tuan Mellema’s? I asked.
“Sinyo’s!” she maintained.
“There are many sinyos and tuans in Wonokromo,” I said, though unsure of myself, because no sinyos and tuans came visiting the villages around here. And Minem spent her days working with the dairy cows. She’d be too tired to travel away from the village at night. She had never taken holidays. Whenever I visited the village, I never saw anything suspicious. The men who did the patrols never reported seeing any sinyo or tuan.
A few weeks before Nyai went away, though, the patrols did report seeing an outsider visit Mi
nem’s house several times. But they said there was nothing suspicious. Just a guest, not an outlaw or anything. Perhaps he wanted to marry her. We had no right to stop him.
So I had never paid any attention to him, as he was not making trouble. But remembering those reports of her guest, I then asked Minem: “Minem, you’ve never spoken about the child’s father before. Why all of a sudden, after being visited regularly lately, do you begin to bring the subject up?”
“There’s no connection with him,” she answered, becoming even more cheeky. “The thing is that I’ve been waiting for Sinyo to come back, but he never has. So what will become of the child? Sinyo Robert promised that when the child was born he would acknowledge him.”
“But he never has.”
“That’s why I have come to Darsam.”
“You want me to help you to convince Nyai to accept him?”
“Why not, if he is indeed her grandson? On my death, I’d swear anywhere, this is the child of Sinyo Robert.”
I sent my wife and children out, but they had already heard part of the story. I think Minem indeed planned that they hear, so the story would spread. Soon all of Wonokromo will hear, Nyai. That is one reason why I thought I had better report to you as soon as possible. Perhaps already she has begun to tell her story to her friends, with the intention of trying to squeeze something out of you later.
What I thought then, Nyai, was that a simple girl like Minem surely wouldn’t know how to go about blackmailing someone. Then it occurred to me that she might have been encouraged by the man who has been visiting her lately. Perhaps he has been inciting her to try to make some profit out of the affair, squeeze something from Nyai. Was I wrong to think that, Nyai?
So I gave the baby back to her. He looked as though he would become a tall boy.
“Darsam, you can see for youself. His father isn’t Javanese,” said Minem.
“Who is this man who has been visiting you lately?”
“Babah Kong,” she answered without shame.
“Perhaps this is Babah Kong’s child,” I said.
“No. I’ve only known him for a little while.”
“Babah Kong wants to marry you?”
“No.”
“Take you as his concubine?”
“He only comes to chat.”
“Liar,” I said. “As if I don’t know what you are. Come on, say it again: He only comes to chat. Come on, say it.”
Minem didn’t repeat her statement.
“Now if you have another child, you’ll be accusing someone else of being the father.”
“No, Darsam. This is Sinyo Robert’s child.”
“What does your guest talk about?”
“This and that.”
“What does he say about this child?” I asked.
“He did once ask who the child’s father was: Sinyo, Tuan, or Young Master. I answered: He’s Sinyo’s child.”
“How could he know there was a Sinyo, Tuan, and Young Master. You’re the one who has been running off at the mouth!”
“No, I didn’t tell him anything about Nyai’s family.”
“Good. So he knew before he met you. So it was he who told you to come to me now.”
Minem denied this ferociously, with all her being. But I don’t know, Nyai, if she was telling the truth or not. She was always smiling, flirting, pinching me, and things.
“Why don’t you claim that his father is the Tuan Resident, or the Governor-General?”
She didn’t know what a resident or governor-general was. She answered like this: “His father really is Sinyo Robert. I will always say so, Darsam, because Sinyo made a promise to me. He said he would take me as his nyai and that we would live in a building and I wouldn’t have to work but would be an employer instead.”
“But Babah Kong wants you as well. What are you up to?”
“I’ve already said no. I’m still waiting for Sinyo. And he still hasn’t come home. Help this child, Darsam. Talk to Nyai. Could you stand to see her grandson going without like this?”
“Is it the child who needs help, or you?”
“What would be wrong with both of us receiving some help?” and she pinched my thigh so hard I let out a yell. I pushed her out of the house.
So I have told you the beginning of the story, Nyai. I mean about the matter of Minem’s child. In Darsam’s opinion, Nyai should examine both the child and his mother. I don’t know what that girl, that Minem, really wants. She has the tongue of a devil. And even on the first day that Mr. Dalmeyer arrived here, she was flirting with him—it was incredible. And Mr. Dalmeyer responded to her flirtations. He worked here for four days, and every evening he disappeared into the barn. Everyone saw what was going on. Even though the two of them always talked in whispers, in the end they were overheard. I won’t tell you what they said, Nyai; it wouldn’t be proper.
Then one day, after Mr. Dalmeyer’s work here was finished, a watchman reported to me: Babah Kong had arrived to visit Minem. According to the schedule Minem shouldn’t be at home yet. But she was. So I went after her, to her house. From a distance, I saw them go inside the house. I could see Babah Kong. Nyai, it was someone we all would recognize: Fatso!
But I only glimpsed him for a moment. I had to have another look. I went up closer to Minem’s house. It seemed they knew I was coming. Minem came outside to greet me.
“Who is your guest?” I asked.
“I have no guest here,” she answered. She was carrying her baby.
I went inside. The only person there was her old mother. I checked under the sleeping benches. It was true; there was no guest. Minem went off again, back to the cattle pens to get on with her work. She paid no heed to me. But I had seen Babah Kong go into the house; I had seen him with my own eyes. He must have gone out the back door. I went out to the back of Minem’s house. Yes, I was right; there he was, walking off quickly between the thickets of banana trees and taro bushes.
I was not mistaken, Nyai. There was nothing wrong with my sight. Babah Kong was none other than Fatso.
I pulled out my machete and set off after him. He knew I was chasing him and he began running too. He was fat all right, but there was still a lot of briskness in his stride. He ran fast, like a devil.
“Hey, stop, you, Fatso!” I shouted.
He paid no heed, so I kept chasing him. He tried to get out of the village and make his way into the fields. I kept after him but he ran very well, that fat body of his bent over; he looked rounder, like a marble. Run! You will not escape me. You do not know these fields as I do.
I wanted to make sure he could not lose himself again in the compound of Ah Tjong’s brothel. He must die unwitnessed at twilight in these fields. His sins against us have been too many. His reappearance was the omen of some new disaster. He must die.
It appeared he was indeed trying to get to Ah Tjong’s brothel. I moved to cut off his path. He turned left. The distance between us seemed less and less. I saw his face was already scarlet when he turned to get a glimpse of me, and his chest was heaving and panting. Three people are not needed here—you will not escape Darsam, one man alone. Fatso! Ayoh, use up all your breath before this machete sweeps through the air to split your chest.
He finally reached an area that has never been planted, because the ground is bad, too low and full of potholes and roots. Miss Annelies had once ordered it leveled and covered with peanut-shell waste. Some work had been carried out. The compost had begun to rot away and the potholes had reemerged. We really didn’t put on enough in the first place.
Fatso ran in that direction. Several times he fell, but he easily recovered himself. I also fell. I was having a hard time as well. Once I dropped my machete. It took quite a while to find it amongst all the dense bracken. Fatso ran on happily, even stopping to look while getting his breath back.
“Fatso!” I threatened him. “Don’t enjoy the dusk air for too long. In a moment I will catch up with you again.”
Once I found my machete, I mobilized
all my strength. The distance between us narrowed again. He began to run out of breath and strength. Now I’ve got you! “You!” I shouted. Fatso was cornered in a dry canal. He had toppled into it and hidden himself there. His whole body was hidden from my view.
When I reached the dry canal I found him trying to free himself from an overgrown vine. His eyes showed no fear—this madman.
“Now you die!” I hissed.
“Don’t kill me,” he said, panting softly. “I’m not an enemy.”
“Shut your mouth!”
“Truly, I’m not an enemy.”
I raised my machete to scare him into admitting who he was.
“I’m a friend,” he said, and he remained calm and unafraid.
I attacked with my machete, intending to cut off his head. He adroitly stepped aside. Although fat, he was tremendously fit, quick like a deer. That alone was enough to confuse me. I jumped into the canal to finish him off once and for all. I heard him still panting. I heard my own breathing too.
“No!” he shouted, seeing I was truly out to kill him. No matter. In a moment his neck would be sliced, as soon as he was no longer able to sidestep the machete, which was already whistling in the air. He rolled over quickly. My machete missed again, hitting a clump of clove plants. I raised it once again.
All of a sudden there was an explosion. My hand, holding the machete, bent back. The machete snapped and the broken piece disappeared into the overgrowth.
I stopped in my place, Nyai. The machete did not cut through his neck. I glanced up at my weapon. All I could see was the top of a tree. All that was left of my machete was its stump. Fatso seemed to think I’d be worried by that. He smiled, that madman! He obviously didn’t understand who Darsam was, Nyai.
Fatso leaned against the bank of the canal. My shortened machete was once again raised, ready to smash down on his face. His fat lips and narrow eyes would disappear from his face. I no longer heeded the pistol in his hand.
“Don’t go on,” he warned.
I paid no attention. The pistol exploded again. Now what was left of my machete fell to the ground amongst the weeds and ferns of the unused canal. Nyai, my hand felt hot. My fingers were unable to grip. He had shot me; I could do nothing.