Child of All Nations

  “Go back!” I ordered Marjuki.

  “Go back where, Young Master?”

  “To where we’ve just come from. Stop by that little girl.”

  By the time we reached May, she was panting desperately. I jumped down. Her face was wet with tears and her hand was still waving futilely in the air. I picked her up and carried her.

  “What’s the matter, May?”

  Between her sobs she said in French: “Don’t be angry with Papa. Uncle is Papa’s only friend.”

  That truly cut my heart. I hurriedly whispered in her ear: “No, May, I’m not angry with your papa. Truly, I’m not. Let’s go home.”

  “Uncle shouted so loudly at Papa,” she protested.

  “I won’t shout at your papa again, May,” I promised.

  “I prepared a drink for you,” she spoke again, “and you wanted to leave, just like that. Doesn’t Uncle love May any more?”

  Wiping away her tears with a handkerchief, I carried her back inside the house on my shoulder. Jean Marais was still sitting, thinking. He didn’t lift his eyes to look at me, as if he no longer wanted to know me. Maysoroh ran out to the back and returned with drinks. Then she rushed to her father’s side. Her clearly spoken words were interspersed with sobs: “Papa, Uncle is not angry with you anymore.”

  Jean Marais was silent.

  I regretted everything that had happened, as did he. I swallowed the drink May had brought. I caressed her hair, then excused myself.

  “No!” protested May. She began to cry again. “You still haven’t spoken to Papa.” She collided into me, her red eyes moist, protesting in her own way. I too was now shedding tears. I ran to Jean Marais. I embraced him; I kissed him on his thickly whiskered cheeks: “Forgive me, Jean, forgive me.” I cried and Jean cried.

  All this happened a week ago.

  Now, with Nijman’s letter in my hand, I went to Jean’s place again. Eight-thirty in the morning. May was at school. Jean was painting. My anger would now avenge itself. Not only does Minke not need to write in Malay, but he has taken another step upward: He is going to do an interview in English.

  He didn’t seem bothered by my arrival. I went up to him and began: “Jean, once more forgive me my unworthy behavior of the other day.”

  Without turning, and while still sweeping the canvas with his brush, he answered: “I understand your difficulties, Minke. You’ve suffered a lot of sadness lately. You’re still in mourning. I was also in the wrong; I wasn’t very clever in choosing the time. Forget it, Minke. And more than that, it’s not right for me to interfere in how you dedicate your life. I didn’t mean anything bad by what I said.”

  His pronouncement sounded long and formal—a warning bell.

  “Of course, nothing bad would come from you.”

  Now the moment had arrived for me to avenge his earlier arrogance. I would show him the letter from Nijman so that he would know: Minke was always advancing. He would be startled. He must be startled. He had to understand just who this person Minke was.

  “Jean, Nijman has written to me. He wants to see me at his office, but not to write in Dutch. You don’t agree, do you, with me writing in Dutch?” He put down his brush and stared at me in great surprise.

  “It’s not that I don’t agree,” he answered, but didn’t continue.

  “Nijman has asked me to write. Do you know in what, Jean? English!”

  As if he understood that this was my revenge, his hand nervously sought his brush; he knocked it and it fell to the floor. He didn’t retrieve it. He brushed his hands on his trouser legs and then held one out to me. He said coldly: “Congratulations, Minke. You are indeed progressing.”

  Now feel what it’s like! I shouted silently, thrilled, in my heart. Filled with my victory, I examined his paintings.

  Following Dr. Martinet’s sales talk at my wedding, Jean had received many orders for portraits that didn’t come through me. He’d already finished more than ten paintings. The one of Dr. Martinet was the only one I recognized. Quite accurate, with the dusky sky as background. His eyes gazed at me without blinking. The point of his nose shone in its sharpness. I could recognize in the painting both Dr. Martinet and his kindness.

  “Those pictures are all finished, Minke. They just need to be collected.” Suddenly he turned the conversation. “You’re still an admirer of Japan, Minke, aren’t you?”

  “That’s right, Jean.”

  He didn’t go on, but began to identify each of the portraits for me: this administrator, that official or police officer…as if showing off his triumphs, showing that he could succeed without me, and even succeed better.

  “You’re doing very well too, Jean,” I praised him.

  “No, Minke. None of this is the proper work of an artist. Just the work of a day-laborer, a coolie.”

  “But these pictures are all of important people—all of them.”

  “That’s got nothing to do with the art of painting. It’s only to make a living, not for making life fulfilling. There is nothing of any importance that I want to say that I can put in those portraits. Except perhaps for the one of Dr. Martinet.”

  “I understand your words, Jean, but not what you mean.” I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye, and my impression was that he wasn’t jealous of my success—he really was dissatisfied with his work.

  “Do you remember Maiko, the Japanese prostitute?”

  “Of course, Jean. That small, fragile woman?”

  “Servicing people for no other reason than to make a living. I’m no different from Maiko. It makes me ashamed.”

  “The comparison is extreme,” I said.

  “Just think: I get paid for pleasing other people who have no spiritual or emotional relationship with me. In art, that’s called prostitution. You’re lucky to be able to pour out what you feel in your writings. I can’t.”

  He limped across to the window on his crutches. With his back to me, he said: “So you’re still an admirer of Japan?”

  “Why, Jean?”

  “If all the Japanese didn’t want to write in their own language…”

  Straight away I knew he was launching a counterattack. I returned to my earlier vigilance.

  But he changed direction: “Do you remember what I once said about Jepara carving? I got more satisfaction out of working Jepara-type motifs into my furniture. At least it meant I was doing something to ensure that one of the beautiful creations of your people would be permanently preserved for others to see. I often hear from Kommer that the Javanese have many beautiful writings. I think that if I knew about Java, I’d be more happy translating them and bringing them to the French people than working like Maiko with all this.”

  Now I was at an even greater loss to understand. Yet I had the feeling that with this puzzle too he was still on the attack.

  “You’re confused, Jean.”

  “Yes, I’m confused.”

  We both went silent. I began to think over his words. Then all of a sudden the hidden meaning came to me, emerging as the meaning of one sentence linked up with another: an admirer of Japan…if all Japanese didn’t want to speak in their own language…preserve forever some of the beautiful creations of Java…translate and bring them to the French people rather than work like Maiko.…yes. He was still on the attack. And I could sense that the purpose behind his attack was the same as before: to get me to change from writing in Dutch to writing in Malay or Javanese. It was clear he didn’t think much of my getting the English interview at all.

  I steered his attention in another direction: “How’s the picture of my wife going, Jean?”

  “Annelies is so beautiful and alluring. She doesn’t need any adornments. Her last experiences gave a special substance to her character. Only the brush stroke of a painter who truly knew her, Minke, can realize her potential as a subject for a portrait.”

  I didn’t understand about art. So: “Naturally, Jean.”

  “Moreover, I don’t need to lie to you or Nyai.” It seemed he w
as reading my thoughts. He stressed the word lie as if inviting me to recall our argument of a week ago.

  “It’s not right to lie to a friend,” he said.

  So he was still pushing me to write in Malay or Javanese. “If you’re in a hurry, Jean, I’ll meet May later,” I said, ending that unpleasant conversation.

  “You’re always so kind, Minke.”

  And I left him there with his thoughts.

  I arrived too early at Nijman’s office. There was a Chinese youth sitting in the waiting room. His pigtail, his thau-cang, looked too long for his thin body. Its light brown color also didn’t seem right for his clear ivory-yellow skin. It was as though you could see the whole system of blood vessels through his transparent skin. But that too-long pigtail trailing right down to the waist! Strange! Long and not very thick. Not in balance with the round, fat, healthy red face. Just his face though; his body was gaunt. I looked at the thau-cang’s hairs again: coarse and very thick.

  I don’t know why the pigtailed youth nodded to me, smiling so that his narrow eyes almost disappeared. His teeth became visible: few and far between and very sharp. His clothes of Shantung silk were ivory-yellow, clean but old. His reddish face reminded me of a guava fruit.

  After nodding and smiling, he just sat silently and didn’t try to start a conversation.

  I made a guess: This is the Chinese youth Nijman wants interviewed. I was disappointed at the idea that this might be him—just a youth dressed in Shantung pajamas, without any shoes, with pointed and few-and-far-between teeth—just a sinkeh. There’s no way some sinkeh boy would have any business with a Dutch newspaper! And if this was the one, why didn’t he appear to be educated? Coming into a European’s office wearing pajamas, even if they were from Shantung silk. He looked more like a peddler from the villages. He wasn’t even wearing sandals, but was barefoot.

  A Pure-Blood sinyo requested that I go upstairs to the editorial office. Nijman was writing at his desk. He put his quill back into the ink bottle, stood up, and shook hands with me. His words were merry, friendly, yet very polite and gentle.

  “I trust that you have now got over your troubles, Tuan. That is why I took the decision to write to you.”

  “Thank you, Tuan Nijman.”

  “We all greatly admire the resolve and patience of you and Nyai. How is your wife’s health, Tuan?”

  “Fine, Tuan, fine,” I lied.

  “I’m glad to hear it. Do you remember your last article? You compared something with a sparrow in a storm? It’s my own opinion the comparison is not quite right. In my view, and it’s not just my own, it is you, Tuan, that is the storm, and that which you considered was a storm was really the sparrow.”

  “This time you are truly exaggerating,” I answered, and I remembered Mother’s warning always to be wary of flatterers.

  “No”—he took out his pocket watch and looked at it for a moment—“I doubt if one in a thousand people could get through what you have got through safely. The reality is that you yourself progress further and further because of these difficulties. That is why I decided to write to you: Begin with English! Defeated in one field of battle, but victorious in another. What’s the difference? Isn’t that so, Tuan Minke? If you succeed, your voice will be able to reach the international audience without going via the translations of others, yes?”

  “You exaggerate.”

  “Not at all,” he said firmly. “Since the Japanese have been given equal status, all sorts of strange things have been happening in Southeast Asia.”

  “I’ve studied all your articles but, excuse me, I haven’t read about anything strange happening.”

  He laughed and invited me to sit on the settee: “Not everything is reported in the papers, Tuan. Look, you’ve read my writings about the Chinese young people who are restless and jealous of Japan?” His eyes pierced mine with the question.

  “Yes, and I read a lot more after I received your letter.”

  “Excellent. It looks like these young Chinese have a real passion to catch up with Japan. Once you have begun to write in English, you’ll be able to establish direct contact with publishers in Singapore and Hong Kong. That will bring you closer to the British empire, to the international audience. Your writings about these strange goings-on will be very interesting to the international community, Tuan. Who knows, you might be a big success in this too.”

  “Ah, you are exaggerating very much, Tuan.”

  “Not at all. We’ll try. To start with, you will note down an interview between myself and a young Chinaman about your age.”

  I had not been wrong. It was indeed the young sinkeh with the guava-ball face who was going to be interviewed.

  “And besides that,” Nijman went on, “you will be able to see close up just how these strange goings-on are taking form. It will be very interesting. These young Chinese are nothing but clowns making unfunny and dangerous jokes. Not at all funny, even saddening. And everyone knows you are far more educated than all of them. The Dutch education system is rated among the best in the world. Just look upon this experiment as an enjoyable game.”

  The Pure sinyo who was outside a while ago opened the door. Guava Face stood in the doorway, bowing his head deeply. When he stood up straight again he seemed even skinnier than before.

  “Please come in,” Nijman said in English, without moving from his chair. I followed his example.

  The Chinaman’s bare feet made their way nimbly and quickly across the room and brought him up to us. He stopped in front of Nijman’s desk, where he bowed once again and expressed his greetings in an English with which I wasn’t familiar.

  I got in first by holding out my hand. Then I sensed my own nervousness: I mustn’t fail this test. I will suffer great embarrassment if I am unable to catch what he says.

  Nijman still sat in his chair. His English was clear.

  “Please sit down, sir,” he said. “Mr. Minke, this is Mr. Khouw Ah Soe. Mr. Khouw Ah Soe, you must have come across Mr. Minke’s name in the newspapers.”

  Guava Face bowed even while seated. He bowed so often I began to wonder whether it really was Chinese custom, real Chinese custom, in its pure form.

  “Ya-ya-ya, Mr. Minke…”

  I sharpened my listening to accustom myself to his accent.

  “The waves of events involving yourself and your family—we followed them closely. We all have sympathy for you and your family. May you remain strong. And what is the news of your wife now?”

  “Very good, thank you, Mr. Khouw.”

  His narrow eyes penetrated mine. I observed them for a second. Standing there with nothing on his feet, wearing only pajamas, he didn’t seem to suffer any sense of inferiority at all. He moved and spoke as if he weren’t arraigned before a European, but among his own best friends. This approach might not be very pleasant for Nijman, who would be used to being fawned upon by Natives. And that’s what made Khouw’s behavior so interesting to me. He didn’t try to pretend to be anything more than he really was. His face reddened as he talked. His few pointed teeth appeared and disappeared from behind his lips.

  “I’d like to talk to you one day if you have the time,” he said to me. “In any case, sir, we are very grateful to you that, no matter what the means and route was, you played a role in the destruction of the corrupt Old Generation that Ah Tjong symbolized.”

  Word by word I followed what he was saying. But, damn it, I didn’t know what he meant. All I could do was grimace. It seemed he had already become used to speaking English in his own way. I tuned my ear so as to hear better.

  “Your contribution was really greater than ours. May I know where you live? Are you still with that business?” he asked.

  “Still, Mr. Khouw.” I was amazed that he knew all that.

  “May I, perhaps, visit there one day?”

  “Of course. And just wait there for me if I haven’t arrived home yet.”

  Nijman intervened: “Let’s begin our interview, gentlemen.”

&nbsp
; I readied myself with pencil and paper. The Pure sinyo appeared at the door again, but Nijman waved him away.

  “Now, Mr. Khouw,” Nijman began, “would you like to tell us where you come from and what education you have?”

  “Of course. I am from Tientsin, the son of a merchant.”

  “What kind of merchant, Mr. Khouw?”

  “Everything that can be sold, sir. I’m a graduate of the English-language secondary school at Shanghai.”

  “But it’s not close to Shanghai—Tientsin—is it?”

  “Not at all close.”

  “Are you a graduate from a Protestant or Catholic mission school?”

  I wrote and wrote. Not sentences—just words.

  “What kind of school it was and who owned it aren’t important. In the beginning I wanted to continue my schooling in Japan. But knowing that there were very few places put aside for foreign students, I didn’t try, especially as I knew that several of my fellow countrymen there returned before finishing their studies.”

  He was silent for a moment. It seemed he was giving me time to take down what he was saying.

  “Was their action a protest or the result of discrimination against them?” asked Nijman.

  “Neither. They had taken an oath to become good workers for the Chinese Young Generation movement.”

  “So then you joined them?”

  “Exactly. There is no point in becoming a clever expert, as clever as a May tree—”

  “What is a May tree?”

  “Just the name of a tree that turns the mountains yellow whenever it flowers.”

  “And it is really tall, this tree?”

  “No, not really…anyway, any education would be wasted if one had to take orders from the, corrupt and ignorant Older Generation that holds power, or if you had to become ignorant and corrupt yourself in order to be able to maintain that power. All a waste, sir. Even the cleverest of experts who became part of an ignorant power would become ignorant also.”

  “So you object to the nature of the power of the Chinese empire at the moment?” asked Nijman.