Found in Translation

by Frank Wynne

  Gradually, the emptiness abated and finally disappeared. Other things came to occupy my mind. Even so, at times, when I suddenly remembered Nyi Kin, I would ask again, “When is Nyi Kin coming back?” But Mother’s answer was always, “She’s still ill.”

  At that age I didn’t know that Nyi Kin’s house was not far from ours, only six or seven houses away. It wasn’t until years later that Mother revealed the real reason Nyi Kin had gone: Nyi Kin liked to take spices from the kitchen, she said, and my mother would not allow thievery of any kind.

  *

  Nyi Kin was replaced by a younger woman. I was three years old at the time and had a baby sister who was one year old. Because I slept with the servant, I always woke up at five in the morning. She had to rise early to cook the fried rice for my parents’ foster children—who weren’t really foster children, but children whose parents had placed them with us—before they left for school. The two of us would squat together beside the hearth while frying the rice. When any crisp rice stuck to the bottom of the wok, I’d ask her for it and eat it right there.

  I can’t remember the servant’s name, but I do remember that she, like Nyi Kin, was very fond of me. She had been raised on a farm and had once been married to a farmer, but after their crops failed they had separated.

  An incident involving that servant took place when I was three or four years old and is still remarkably vivid in my mind. One morning I asked her for the crackled rice, which I then proceeded to nibble on while sitting on my haunches in front of the hearth. Our kitchen was not in the house but in an attached structure, the roof of which was made of corrugated zinc with upturned edges that had been fixed to a set of stakes. Seen from the inside, the roof had a triangular-shaped hole at each end, and it was through one of those holes I saw the most amazing thing. At 5 a.m., the sky looked completely dark from inside the kitchen, especially when one was facing the fire. But that morning, while I was sitting there, I looked up at one of the holes and saw a big head peering inside. I could make out a beard, eyebrows, and a big white moustache, but the face of the creature looking at me was black, even blacker than the sky outside. I didn’t do anything. I just sat there in the predawn light, looking at that big face as I nibbled on my crackled rice. I didn’t say anything either and, in the days that followed, the face began to appear regularly.

  Finally, one day, when seeing the face, I pointed at the window and said to the servant, “Look! There it is! I told you! There’s a big black head peeking at us again!”

  The servant raised her head to look at the hole beneath the roof and started to laugh at me. “Of course there is,” she said dryly, “but I can’t see anything.”

  “But I saw it,” I told her. “I saw a head, a really big head.”

  “Well I didn’t,” she said with just as much certainty. “What did it look like?”

  “It was black. I saw a black face.”

  “You’re fibbing. There’s nothing out there.”

  I was unable to make her believe me; and our little conversation died right there.

  Once I told Mother about what I had seen, but she didn’t take me seriously either. As a matter of fact, she frowned and looked at me as if she were angry. “Has someone been telling you stories about devils? Who’s been telling you about devils?”

  At that age I already knew about devils, and I asked her: “Do you think it was really a devil I saw?”

  “Who’s been telling you those stories?” she asked suspiciously.

  “Nobody. I saw him myself, Mama.”

  “You mustn’t lie. Who taught you to lie? Nyi Kin, or is it that new servant? Tell me.”

  “Nobody, Mama, I saw him myself.”

  When Mother went off to question the servant, she responded with what I told her: “Every morning he tells me he sees the devil out there, but whenever I look up at the hole, I never see anything.”

  “Well, you must not tell him stories,” Mother warned her.

  “Oh no, ma’am, I’d never do that.”

  “There’s no need to scare him.”

  “Oh no, ma’am. I wouldn’t do that.

  After that I stopped telling people about the face I saw through the hole beneath the roof every morning. But then one morning something happened even more out of the ordinary: That day, I was in the kitchen and I saw the head peek inside and then, a moment later, a monkey almost as large as myself jumped down from the hole. It leaped at the servant, who took off running around the central hearth. In the firelight I could see fear distorting the servant’s features, but for whatever reason she neither screamed nor called for help. As the monkey tore around the kitchen, it grazed against me but didn’t stop to bother me. It seemed intent on catching the servant. The two of them ran around and around in circles, one playing the hunter, the other the prey. But then, all of a sudden, the monkey vanished—I don’t know where it went—and the servant collapsed on her haunches completely out of breath. I stared at her in silence. When she finally stood, I saw that there was a plate-size puddle of water on the ground where she had been squatting.

  “You wet yourself,” I commented.

  The servant looked down at the puddle shimmering with the reflections of the firelight. She tossed some ashes on the pool of urine and walked away.

  This experience was so overwhelming for me, I felt that I had to tell someone about it. It made me excited just to think about retelling it. When the other kids awoke, I ran in to tell them, but seeing that my mother was also awake, the desire to do so suddenly vanished. I didn’t have the nerve. I knew my mother would say I was lying.

  Later, after my father and the other kids had gone to school, the house was quiet. It was then that the servant approached my mother. “Ma’am, I would like to quit today,” she said.

  “But why? Aren’t you happy here?”

  “It’s fine here, ma’am, but …” She didn’t continue.

  Mother didn’t try to make her change her mind, and that very same day the servant left, never to return. I wanted to tell Mother what had happened, but I didn’t. So, for the rest of the household, the servant’s departure left little impression at all.

  A few years later, when I finally did tell my mother about the incident, she cleared up—or at least thought that she cleared up—the mystery: “That would have been the Suryos’ monkey,” she told me. “They used to let it run loose in the morning.” Memories differ, it seems. Our neighbor, Mr. Suryo, did indeed once own a monkey, but as I recall, that was not until a few years later.

  Wherever that monkey had come from, it no longer mattered. The monkey—the one with the big head, white eyebrows, beard, and moustache—that had chased the servant was gone. It vanished like the banks of the river and the groves of bamboo dragged away by the floodwaters of the Lusi.

  *

  My father was the principal of a private school, and in the morning, when I’d see him getting ready to leave, I’d ask him to take me along. He’d almost always say no and I would start to cry. I don’t know why, but there was an emptiness inside me that always made me want to cry.

  “When you’re big, you can go to school too,” my parents would tell me, in an attempt to get me to stop. That usually helped to cheer me up.

  “Can I really, Mama? Can I, Papa?”

  “Why of course. And you can go to college in Surabaya, or to Batavia, or maybe even to Europe!”

  After I had calmed down, my father would kiss me on both cheeks and get ready to leave. Only then could he safely walk away. Even so, I’d sometimes run after him, forcing Mother to follow me out to the road to try to make me stop. When this happened, I would start to cry again. But if Mother again said no, and absolutely forbade me to go, I dared not protest.

  I remember well the feeling of what it was like when my father was not at home. I had a paint can to which my mother had fastened wheels and a string, and I’d pull it behind me wherever I went. There must have been something inside the can, because it clattered and clanked as I pulled
it behind me, but the sound it made seemed to soothe my fears and encourage delight. But that, too, is gone now, just like the riverbanks and the clumps of bamboo that are dragged away by the floodwaters of the Lusi.

  *

  Usually when Father returned from school he would be laughing and in a good mood. Coming into the house, he’d always call out my name first and then that of my one-year-old sister. Then and only then, after kissing me and seeing that I was well, would he change his clothes and sit down to eat with Mother at the dining table. I’d join them but I ate on my feet, standing beside Mother. She would take a spoon of food from off her plate and put it in my open mouth. Then I’d run around the room and not return to my place until the mouthful of rice or whatever it was had been chewed and swallowed.

  “Tastes good, does it?” my father would usually ask. And I’d answer with a laugh, “Gr-e-ea-a-t!”

  My father never ate very much, not more than half a plate. Very rarely did he eat all the rice that my mother served him. But before my father had finished and left the dinner table, my full stomach would have already made me start to yawn. That’s when my father would say to me: “You’re falling asleep on your feet. Off with you; it’s time for bed!”

  Only when he said that would I realize that I was drowsy, but that didn’t make me want to go to sleep. Mother always had to trundle me off to bed and stay with me, patting me on the thigh, until I fell asleep. I could see her hazy shape through my half-closed eyes. A smile revealed her small but evenly shaped teeth; a glow of love and affection radiated from her almond-shaped eyes.

  But that too is gone now, carried away long ago, leaving with me only memories and feelings of wonder.

  *

  My mother, whose father was a Muslim cleric, was quite devout. I have no memory of my grandfather or what he looked like, but I remember Mother praying each and every day, except for the times she was pregnant. With her body almost completely enclosed in a pure white robe, only her face and fingers were visible when she prayed. Sometimes she held a rosary in her hand. When she was praying, I wouldn’t dare approach her. I always waited outside the room where she prayed until she finished.

  “Why do people pray, Mama?” I once asked her.

  “To obtain God’s blessings,” she told me. “You pray for those who have sinned, that they return to the good and proper way. You pray for safety and peace. When you’re bigger you’ll understand why. You’re still little. It’s better for you to play than pray.”

  As to why this was, I never enquired further.

  On nights when my father wasn’t home, I’d often be awoken by the sound of my mother reciting her prayers. With Mother’s clear and lilting voice, her prayers were like songs for me that kept the dark and silent night at a safe distance. Whether she was singing or praying, her voice was a pleasure to hear. And in the morning, when I woke up, if my father wasn’t home yet, she would still be in her room praying.

  One time, in the middle of the night, when I was awakened by her prayers, I went to her room. “It’s late, Mama,” I said to her. “Why are you still praying?”

  Taking my chin in her thumb and forefinger, she pulled my head to her lap. Not saying anything, she kissed me instead. I could feel the warmth of her breath as she pressed her nose against my cheek.

  She then began to pray again, but now her voice was hoarse and shaky.

  “How come you’re still praying?” I asked again.

  “To make sure your father is safe. To keep him away from temptation.” She looked at me quizzically. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

  I answered her question with one of my own: “How come Papa isn’t home?”

  Once again, she answered my question with a kiss that she pressed firmly on my cheeks.

  “Where is Papa?” I asked again.

  “Working,” she finally said.

  “But why is he working so late?” I asked.

  “Because he has lots of work to do.”

  “When is he coming home?”

  “When you wake up, your father will be home. Come now; it’s time to go back to sleep.”

  She took me back to my bed and sang me a lullaby. When I woke up she was still praying, but her voice had now regained its clarity. To my ears, her voice didn’t seem to be human at all; it was the sound of purity itself. I wanted to ask her whether my father had come home, but I didn’t have the energy to get up, and I fell asleep again. I dreamt of my parents and my little sister.

  In the morning when I awoke again I ran to find Mother. “Where’s Papa?” I asked her.

  “Your father has gone to school.”

  “Did he come home?”

  “Yes, he did and before he left he looked in on you. He kissed you and then went off to school.”

  “Why doesn’t he stay home and play with me?”

  “Because he has to make a living so that he can buy clothing for you and food for the family.”

  I stopped pestering her, but late that day, when my father came home, I ran up to him and asked him, “Why didn’t you come home last night? When I woke up last night, you weren’t here.”

  My father laughed, but his laughter seemed hollow to my ears. On his face was a look of false cheer. My mother sat motionless in her chair, her head bowed.

  “Mama stayed up all night praying!”

  My father’s laughter died immediately.

  “Why don’t you stay at home and play with me?”

  Father laughed again. This time his laugh didn’t sound false, but he still wouldn’t answer me. We went to the dining table, and while we were eating I asked him, “Papa, can I go out with you at night?”

  My question caused him to chuckle. “You’re still too young,” he said. “When you’re big you won’t have to go out with anyone at all. You can go anywhere you want, all by yourself.”

  I suddenly marveled at the miracle of age. His promise made me jump with joy.

  “And can I go to Grandma’s alone?”

  “Of course you can. But not just yet. You’re still too small.”

  “That’s enough,” my mother said in reprimand. “Stop asking your father so many questions. He’s tired and wants to take a nap. And you should take one too.”

  That conversation, that incident, that too is gone, carried away and not likely ever to return.

  *

  In my mind’s eye I can see clearly a day when I was afraid to approach my mother. It was a Sunday morning, and my parents’ foster children had all gone off to a picnic site where the young people in our small town liked to gather. The house was quiet. Father was gone; only my mother, my sister, and the servant were at home. Feeling lonely, I went to find my mother and found her lying beside my sister on the bed. My sister was asleep, but my mother was staring up at the mosquito net that hung over the bed.

  “Mama!” I called to her.

  She didn’t answer me; she didn’t even move. With a great deal of effort I managed to climb up and onto the bed, and then I saw that my mother’s eyes were red. Now and again she would wipe them with the flannel of my sister’s blanket. I didn’t know what to say. I sat there, silent for quite a while. I was frightened. Finally, with my voice trembling, I asked, “Why are you crying. Mama?”

  It was only then that she looked at me. She pulled me to her side and hugged me.

  “Why?” I asked again.

  “It’s nothing, my baby.”

  For some reason, right at that moment, I remembered a time, a beautiful time, when we’d gone to Rembang by train. There, looking out to the sea’s horizon, we watched the ever restless and ever pounding sea whose every wave roared as it rushed to the shore. The horizon’s base was a deep blue, almost black in color; closer to the shore it was a lighter blue; and at our feet, where the water tickled and rippled as it licked our skin, it was yellowish with churning sand.

  “When can we take the train again?” I asked her. “When can we go to Rembang and look at the sea?”

  My mother said nothing. It was
as if she too were suddenly feeling the rush of the wind singing through the pines that line the Rembang shore.

  My grandparents, my mother’s parents, lived in Rembang, and upon hearing the name of her hometown Mother started to cry. Not knowing why, I asked her yet again: “Why are you crying?”

  She sat up and kissed me repeatedly. Her tears felt cool on my cheeks. She spoke slowly as if attempting to control her voice: “We’re going to leave Blora, my darling, and stay in Rembang forever.”

  “Why forever, Mama?”

  “Don’t you like the sea?”

  “I do, Mama. Sure, I’d like to live by the sea,” I consented happily. “When do we move?”

  My happiness seemed to make my mother cry even harder.

  “Soon,” she said.

  “When, Mama?”

  “I don’t know, I just don’t know, but you’ll be happy there, won’t you?” My mother wiped her tears with my sister’s blanket.

  “Sure I will. Papa’s coming too, isn’t he?”

  My question startled her. I saw that she was staring straight ahead, not even blinking or looking at me. I don’t know why, but the look on her face suddenly made me afraid, and I started to bawl. My mother kissed me again and said softly: “Hush, don’t cry …” Then my sister, startled by my shriek, also began to cry. Mother immediately put her to her breast. For a time, as she nursed my sister, she said nothing more, but her eyelids trembled and her gaze flitted from one place to another.

  Finally, she told me, “Your father will be going to Rembang too.”

  “That’s good,” I told her, “because if Papa doesn’t go, I don’t want to go either. I’d rather stay here. Where is he, anyway?”

  “Papa’s at work.”

  I then repeated the question I had once asked her: “Why doesn’t Papa ever stay home and play with me?”

  “Because he has a great deal of work to do.”

  “But he’s always working, Mama.”

  “Yes, he is,” she said flatly.

  When hearing her say that, I felt something grab me inside but could not quite figure out what that something was.