Love and Death in Bali

by Vicki Baum

  The punggawa came this time without his umbrella, for he had left his servant behind in the first court. The two Chinese were dressed for this solemn occasion in the dress of their country, long robes of gray silk and short coats without sleeves. It was apparent that Njo Tok Suey had lent his friend a dress to put on, for it was several inches too long for the merchant of Bandjarmasin.

  Njo Tok Suey, in order to make himself more impressive, had put spectacles on and they excited great astonishment, for the courtyard had meanwhile filled with people who, unable to resist their curiosity, seemed to beg condonation by the humble and submissive way they drew near. They squatted all about, the fathers with their children between their knees as though they were watching a play.

  When the punggawa began in sonorous tones to make a set speech, Ida Katut winked and blew out his cheeks. Alit caught his drift and suppressed a smile, and then listened absent-mindedly to the punggawa’s account of the wreck of the Sri Kumala. But after a time the words fell on his ear merely as empty sound and the verses of the Bhagavad-Gita again took possession of his mind: “He who is wise sorrows neither for the living nor for the dead . . .” A murmur from his retainers reminded him that he sat in council, and his attention was finally recalled to the matter in hand by a nudge that Ida Katut roguishly gave his feet on the sly. He was just in time to hear the punggawa’s summing-up: “And therefore I beg your lordship to give ear in your goodness to the complaint of the Chinese, Kwe Tik Tjiang, and to resolve the matter, for I am only a stupid man and incapable of giving judgment.”

  The two Chinese now stood forward and began to talk rapidly. Njo Tok Suey, who was already known to the lord, spoke for both, since the merchant from Borneo spoke an unfamiliar Malay dialect. Ida Katut unobtrusively pointed to his left cheek. Alit saw what he meant. This other Chinese had a large wart on his cheek from which grew five long hairs. Once more he suppressed a smile. He was grateful to Ida Katut for trying to enliven the tedious duties his position imposed.

  “Your Highness,” Njo Tok Suey began, “my friend has a complaint to make against the people of Taman Sari and Sanur. He asks that they shall make good the damage they have done him. He begs that the people who rifled his ship shall be punished for it and made to pay a fine in compensation.”

  The lord with an effort brought his attention to bear on this tiresome business. He was enraged with the punggawa for confronting him with these smooth, unfathomable Chinese, who made him think of the yellow vipers on the sawahs. “We have heard already from the mouth of the punggawa that your ship was a wreck before it struck. It was the god’s pleasure to handle you roughly and it would be better if you asked your own priests the reason for it. The people of Taman Sari and Sanur have nothing to do with your misfortune.”

  “My friend went back that very night to relieve the watch, although he was sick and weak. When he boarded his ship again he found that much was missing from it. Many people must have been there with axes and knives and have carried away everything of value,” Njo Tok Suey said in a submissive voice. The other Chinese grinned at this account of his misfortune and his forehead contracted in wrinkle after wrinkle below his black outlandish cap. Something about this exaggeratedly smiling face displeased the lord. He knew his fellow-men and his heart either went out to them or turned away from them at first sight.

  “The punggawa reports that he had a watch put over the ship, although he was in no way bound to do so,” he said with a note of impatience in his voice.

  “The punggawa’s watch were sleeping like armadilloes when my friend arrived on the beach,” Njo Tok Suey said modestly.

  The punggawa expanded his chest and said, “I posted a watch because I knew that Badung long ago agreed in an important letter to the Dutch to waive its right of salvage and to respect the ownership of wrecked ships. But I cannot prevent the watchmen sleeping when they are tired.”

  A spasm passed over Alit’s face at this reminder. It was true, he reflected, that he had given the Dutch power over the laws of his kingdom. He had put his name to many letters under pressure from the white men’s envoys, who were as ready with the tongue as with the pen. They had threatened him with armed force, persuaded him with smooth words and promised him protection against attacks of hostile neighbors. The knowing Gusti Nyoman from Buleleng had befogged his brain with a mist of words. The lords of Tabanan and Kloeng-kloeng had submitted to the same demands. Even his uncle, the Tjokorda of Pametjutan, with whom he shared the rule of Badung, had persuaded him that it was better to make small concessions to the white men rather than have them invade the country with cannon and armed force. Alit had signed his name and tried to forget. But whenever he was reminded of it, it gnawed at his heart; it was like a tiny invisible worm eating into his pride. The courtiers stirred resdessly to and fro and spoke in low voices. Only Wana, the minister, and Katut, the lontar writer, understood the foreigners’ language. The rest did not know what the Chinese wanted, but they saw clearly that it was something unpleasant.

  “You Chinese, whose names I have not retained,” the lord said loftily, “I have heard what you said and now I speak to you. The men who live on the shore brought you out of danger on their backs. They watched over your ship and your goods were stacked on the beach and not touched by anyone. If they took wood and iron from your dead boat, they were only exercising a right that my forefathers gave them and that has been theirs for many hundreds of years. And as for you,” he said in his native language, turning to the punggawa, “you would do well not to remind me of the Dutch. Badung has not submitted to the foreigners. You are my father-in-law and my friend and the head of five villages, and you ought not to make yourself the spokesman of these foreign Chinese and their paltry affairs.”

  “That is so,” the courtiers said, but the punggawa’s lips went white with anger; though he folded his hands and inclined himself. The two Chinese whispered hurriedly together. The lord relaxed again after he had spoken. Sometimes he felt he was a weakling in the sight of his forefathers, and his heart, in spite of his resolute words, was feeble and incapable of great wrath. He no longer listened as Njo Tok Suey began to speak again, for his ear had caught the sound of a tumult in the outer court, the pattering of many bare feet and merry shouting and loud laughter. He bent down and whispered in Oka’s ear, “Go and see whether Raka has come.” The boy slipped away with hands clasped. When Alit turned to the Chinese again Njo Tok Suey had ended his remarks and was silent. Ida Katut stole a look at his master, and Alit turned a questioning look to his first minister.

  “The Chinaman says that he sailed under the Dutch flag, with his ship’s papers in order and under Dutch protection. He repeats his request to be compensated for his plundered ship. That at least is his expression. He is an impudent rascal and has two faces,” Gusti Wana ended on his own account.

  “At what do you put the damage you have suffered?” the lord asked with a frown. It was obvious now that the Chinaman from Borneo needed no interpreter. Putting his hands in the sleeves of his robe he said fluently:

  “My loss cannot be estimated. I must return to Bandjarmasin a ruined man, without ship, money or goods. My boat was still good enough and I could have made her seaworthy again with a little labor and trouble. The people of the coast have completed its destruction. My losses are greater by far—but I will be content with two hundred ringits in compensation.”

  When he had spoken, there was a brief pause, during which Oka resumed his place with an embarrassed air at Alit’s feet. The lord bent over him expectantly. “The people of Taman Sari have come with their gamelan,” Oka whispered. “And Raka? Is Raka in the puri?” the lord asked quickly. “Raka is not with them,” Oka replied, laying his hand on his master’s knee as though he needed comforting. The sun already marked the last quarter of the day and dusk drew on.

  “Kwe Tik Tjiang,” said the lord, suddenly remembering the name of the impudent and unpleasant petitioner, “as you had the Dutch flag on your ship and as in spite of this the god
s allowed you to be wrecked, you can see for yourself that it is not holy and has no power whatever. But if, as you say, the Dutch are your friends, I advise you to go to Buleleng and ask for your two hundred ringits from them.”

  With this the lord stood up, for his patience was at an end. The Chinese, however, took a step forward and said, “I am only a poor humble trader and cannot enforce my rights. But the Resident of Buleleng is well disposed towards me. He will use his power to see that I have my rights, for he has been put over the island by his queen and what he commands is done.”

  Such insolence as this, accompanied by bows and submissive grimacing, sent the blood to Gusti Wana’s head. But before he could speak, the Dewa Gdé Molog leapt to his feet, and, losing all control of himself, sprang from the platform and stepped up to the Chinese.

  “Our kings are inferior to no kings in the world,” he said in a loud voice. “Whoever insults them shall be punished with death. No one gives us commands and no one is allowed to smirch our honor. We are not afraid of the Dutch! Let them come with their cannon and their guns. We have cannon, too, and our soldiers can shoot, and when the Tjokorda sends out his holy kris and they see the sign of the lion and the snake, more than six thousand warriors will come with their spears and fight for Badung.”

  Dewa Gdé Molog was endowed with a loud and resonant voice, he was a warrior of the Ksatria caste and a rash, hot-tempered man. He could read no lontars and his jokes, when he had been drinking palm wine, were broad and unrestrained. But his strength and his boastful talk gave him influence over the men. He had spoken in Balinese, or shouted rather, and to the farthest walls of the courtyard the men stirred and murmured their agreement. Even Ida Katut’s hand went involuntarily to his kris. But he soon let his wrinkled hand fall and looked at the ruby-adorned hilt which projected above the lord’s shoulder. It was the holy kris, Singa Braga, with the signs of the Lion and the Snake, on which Molog had called. It made his lord’s irresolute face seem even more irresolute. Alit’s face showed that his captain’s outspoken words had wounded him: his own pride lay deeper, encased, hard and difficult of access. “It is foolish to waste proud words on a Chinese pedlar,” he said wearily. Gusti Wana looked disapprovingly at his lord. Where can Raka be? Alit wondered impatiently. “The council is ended,” he said, and turned to go. The whole affair, which turned on such a trifle as two hundred ringits, seemed to him so utterly unimportant and petty. Where can Raka be? he thought. His heart was gripped with suspense; the whole day would end in nothing unless the sight of his friend gave it radiance and meaning. He was almost inclined to pay the Chinese the money merely to be done with it. But at that very moment he heard Kwe Tik Tjiang saying, “I will tell his Highness the Resident of Buleleng what the lord says.”

  It was a humble but unmistakable threat. The Chinese bowed, smiled and waited. All looked at the lord and waited for his reply.

  At this moment the gate-keeper crossed the court and whispered a message to Oka which he repeated to his master. The lord turned away impulsively and walked quickly through the gate leading to the outer court.

  “My minister, the Gusti Wana, will resolve the matter,” he said over his shoulder to the punggawa who stood irresolute. Raka appeared on the steps and bowed to the lord with folded hands.

  “Will my lord forgive me for being late?” he asked in the formal style. Alit quickly laid his hand on his shoulder.

  He had forgotten the Chinese as completely as if they had never existed. His eyes shone and he expanded his chest with relief. “It does me good to see you,” he said familiarly, and putting his arm round Raka’s shoulder he led him away. “Tell me what you have done all day,” he said. “I have been terribly bored and only waiting for the evening.”

  “Are you in a bad mood?” Raka asked with the same familiarity, for the ceremonial style was merely a joke between them, which they kept up for the courtiers’ benefit. By the time they entered the house, in front of which the tiresome conference had taken place, the Chinese and the punggawa, too, had vanished as though the earth had swallowed them up. Only Ida Katut still lounged on the steps, humming to himself. The lord took Raka in and Oka shut the door.

  “Tell me something,” Alit said, sitting down cross-legged beside Raka on the couch. “In the puri the day is empty and the air stands still. What adventures have you had meanwhile?”

  “I went to the temple,” Raka said. “We all took offerings, so that our dance may go well. Before that we rehearsed a long time, for we are doing something out of the common, and the gamelan players were all astray.”

  The door opened and the servants brought in sirih and young coconuts with the shells cut off them. They drank the cool milk which had a delicate sourish taste, and Alit himself prepared the sirih for Raka.

  “And so you have done nothing all day but make offerings and rehearse the dance?” he said with a smile.

  “No,” Raka replied at once, smiling also.

  “Why were you so late?” Alit asked abruptly. “In your life something is always happening. I want to have my share in it.”

  “You need not envy me. I had troubles at home which detained me,” Raka said. The word “troubles” sounded oddly from his smiling lips.

  “What kind of troubles?” the lord asked.

  “My wife has miscarried of the child we were expecting. She bled and I had to stay with her.”

  The lord was silent. Then he said, “You will beget another child.” “Many children from many wives,” Raka replied gaily.

  “What does your wife look like?” Alit asked suddenly.

  “She is taller than most women, nearly as tall as I am. Her face, too, is large and her hands. But she has eyes like a roe deer’s and there is great power in her.”

  “I have heard that,” Alit said. “She found out where the punggawa should dig his well. Do you love her very much?”

  Raka laughed and clapped him good-naturedly on the shoulder. “Love is a word from the old poems you read. In real life there is no love. Men come together like apes and birds. It is sweet sometimes to play with a woman, but the wind blows and there is an end of it. I cannot imagine what you mean when you speak of love.”

  “And your wife?” Alit persisted. There was a frown on his brow and his eyes were unlit beneath the heavy lids.

  “I married her because my father wished it. She is a great help to me now that my mother cannot see well. Also our families have always been connected. I respect her very highly—almost as if she were a man on the same level as oneself. She would please you,” Raka added with a smile. “Besides, she understands the old ways of speech and reads about times past in the lontar books.”

  Alit considered Raka’s answer for a few moments. He appeared to be pleased with it. He signed to Oka and the boy fetched his pipe and began preparing the opium. Alit took the first pull and then offered the pipe to Raka. He shook his head. “Before dancing I must not eat nor indulge in the joys of opium,” he said.

  “Like a priest before the morning prayer?” said Alit, laughing. Raka made a face. He imitated a pedanda muttering Mantras and moving his fingers. Suddenly he broke off and became serious.

  “To think that I might once have become a pedanda,” he said uneasily.

  Alit quickly put his hand on his knee. “You are still young and no drop of knowledge has ever penetrated your brain,” he said consolingly, with a trace of condescension and also of envy. He signed to Oka. “Bring the baris dress for Ida Bagus Raka. He shall change his clothes in my house,” he ordered. The boy slipped from the room. It was invaded for a moment by light and sounds from without as the door opened and shut.

  There was coming and going all the time in the courtyard. The inquisitive spectators of the conference had gone and others had come and squatted down in their place. At one moment some fowls had strayed in, too, and been shooed away with laughter and clapping of hands. Now a crowd of servants appeared, carrying halves of coconut shells with wicks burning in the oil. They hung the lamps her
e and there along the walls and from the eaves and chased away the shadow of night. Below in the first court there was already a gay and expectant crowd in the light of row on row of lamps, for the people were streaming in from many villages to see the dance, news of which had been borne on the breeze. Old men and young; women with flowers in well-combed, oiled hair, accompanied by all their children and with babies on their hips or in their arms; young girls, in a state of eager excitement, with gay shawls over their shoulders against the chill of the night. The men of Taman Sari set up the instruments of their gamelan orchestra at one end of the space reserved for the dance and the gilt carving shone whenever servants went by with more lamps. Those who could find no room in the courtyard crowded in front of the main entrance of the puri. Small boys with flowers stuck behind their ears, cigarettes in their hands and much finery on their sarongs climbed up on to the walls. Women vendors spread their mats and their provisions outside in the light of the small lamps, and many of the people ate, and when they had done threw away the leaves, which were immediately licked clean by the dogs. Ida Kutut threaded his way through the crowd like a wood-beetle. He kept his ears open and his wrinkled face beamed with the joys of eavesdropping.

  The dancers were already waiting up in a balé screened by hangings. It was besieged on all sides by an inquisitive crowd, surging and swaying and spying in through every gap or hole in the curtains. Mothers lifted their children up and showed them the two dancers who played the minister and his funny servant to give them a foretaste of the laughter to come. In the middle of the balé, shielded from view by the men, sat Lambon, bolt upright in her gilded robe, like the small wooden image of a goddess; she was delighted by the prospect of dancing and by the fragrant smell of the champak flowers she wore on her crown. Her aunt sat beside her; she seemed to have left her volubility at home. Probably she was overcome by the splendor of the palace. From time to time she plucked at Lambon’s robe or said something to her in a whisper. The famous teacher from Kesiman, who had taught her dancing, sat on Lambon’s other side. His long hair, already going gray, was knotted up under his head-dress and he wore a short black coat with sleeves, which gave him the air of a courtier in ceremonial dress. He seemed to be anxious and chewed sirih to compose his mind, although it was rather hard work for his toothless gums; but he was too vain to grind his betel-nuts beforehand, as old people did.