Love and Death in Bali

by Vicki Baum

  As for Pak, he sat at home holding in his arms the little bundle wrapped in white linen, that was his son, and he forgot everything else in the fulfilment of his dearest wish.

  And he named him Siang, the light and the day.

  The Birthday

  HAVE you packed?” the Resident Berginck asked as he put down the pen with which he had just signed a letter.

  “Yes, I’m ready to start, Resident,” Boomsmer said, coming to a stop near the door, pith helmet in hand, with a click of the heels.

  “Then this is our last cigar together,” the Resident said with a smile as he pushed a chair forward. Boomsmer bowed and sat down stiffly, for his uniform creaked with starch and his collar was extremely high. They bit the end off their cigars. “Allow me, Resident,” Boomsmer said, offering his superior a match, and then left the next remark to him.

  “Sorry we’re losing you, Boomsmer,” Berginck said, unbuttoning his tunic. “Honestly, I’m sorry. But of course I’m glad you are getting a step up. You’ll like Palembang. It’s a decent place and less worry than we have here. I was stationed there for a few months in my young days. The planters have a nice club. The climate certainly is a bit warmer—”

  “I should like to thank the Resident most heartily for his interest—there was little I could do here—my post gave too little scope. As Assistant Resident of Palembang I shall naturally be able to do more—”

  Berginck was no longer listening. He was reading through the letter he had just signed. The last sentence did not satisfy him. “When does the Zwaluw sail for Banjoewangi?” he asked distractedly.

  “At two o’clock,” Boomsmer answered.

  Berginck pushed the letter aside. He had no love for documents and sweated blood over the writing of his reports. He was a seaman by temperament and upbringing and he liked the colonial service, where not everything as yet was cut and dried. But he loathed office work.

  “I hope you won’t be eaten alive by ants—the Zwaluw is creeping with them,” he said. “Not those gentlemanly big fellows but the little ones. They can make life an agony.”

  “I’ve sailed on the Zwaluw many a time, Resident,” Boomsmer said. She was the old Government boat whose job it was to carry officials up and down the coasts of Bali and Lombok whenever there was trouble.

  “Now listen, Boomsmer,” Berginck said, coming to the point. “I want you to give this note to the Government with your own hands. You are sure to stop a day or two in Batavia.”

  “Two weeks to be exact, Resident.”

  “Yes—well, this précis I’ve drawn up is pretty full, but all the same it might be as well if you were in a position to tell the Governor by word of mouth anything he may want to know.”

  “Of course, Resident.”

  “Best if I could have gone myself. This business has taken on a certain importance—but I can’t leave just now. Well, you know what it’s all about.”

  “Not in detail, Resident,” Boomsmer said with an injured air. “My colleague Visser was entrusted with the inquiry.”

  “You don’t need to envy him for that,” the Resident said genially. “There was little pleasure or profit in it. Here are the facts in a nutshell. This fellow Kwe Tik Tjiang finally piled up a claim a mile long and swore to the plundering of his ship. We know what a Chinaman’s oath is worth among themselves. He also bribed another Chink to give lying evidence, and a few more tricks of the sort. No one has ever got out of him how much in money and goods there actually was in the Sri Kumala. Not so much as he says, anyway.” The Resident described a circle in the air with his cigar. “But....” and then he forgot to continue the sentence.

  “But it is not disputed that there was pilfering and plundering, Resident,” Boomsmer put in, sitting right at the edge of his chair, a habit he had contracted during long years of subordinate positions and not easily got out of even though he had made a big stride forward in his career.

  “Yes, there was pilfering and plundering. No doubt about that,” the Resident said. “Cleaned out, in fact. It seems to me that the people of the coast went out with a real good will and reduced the ship to matchwood. The copper plates alone were worth five hundred guilders. It’s true I can’t get to the bottom of how much was carried off and how much simply went overboard when the ship struck, but it seems clear that at least one thousand nine hundred and twentysix guilders in money and goods have been stolen.”

  “In Badung,” Boomsmer said. It sounded like the banging of a door. The Resident looked at him for a moment in silence and thought of something else.

  “In Badung and Gianjar. To be accurate, more of the plunder was found on Gianjar territory than in Badung.”

  “The Government will not take much account of that,” Boomsmer said with a smile.

  “You may be sure of that. There would be no object in picking a quarrel with a province which is Dutch in any case. The Government will only want to establish one fact, and that is established already—Badung has violated Clause 11 of the Treaty of the 11th of July, 1849.”

  “It seems hardly credible that the authorities have shut their eyes to all this for over fifty years.”

  “Possibly, Boomsmer. No doubt. That is for the Government to consider. I hold an inquiry and make a report. That’s all.”

  “These people could be brought to heel for good with two companies of soldiers,” Boomsmer snapped.

  “Two companies? I’m not so sure about that,” the Resident replied.

  “We are not defeatists, I hope, Resident?” Boomsmer observed, and Berginck shot a quick, short-sighted glance at him.

  “Defeatists—good God, no, Boomsmer. But I have been longer on the island than you have. I can remember the retreat from Lombok. How many men did that cost us?”

  The Resident got up and stood at the edge of the stoep looking out on the lawn with its Dutch borders and Balinese statues. But he did not see them. God knows what met his distracted gaze at that moment.

  “More than two companies, then,” Boomsmer said behind him. The Resident recalled his wandering thoughts. “I am a nervous old man,” he said smiling. “I don’t care for the noise of guns and particularly when they open out on defenceless people armed with spears.”

  “According to our agent’s report,” Boomsmer said sharply, “these defenceless people of Badung have more than six hundred breechloaders and four guns in the Puri. My unalterable opinion is that we have looked on long enough while they armed themselves to the teeth. Action must be taken, energetically, and quickly—that is my conviction, if I may express an opinion, Resident.”

  “Oh, of course, yes,” Berginck said. “You are quite right. Take this to the Governor. If we are to make war, better do it thoroughly. I have no use for half measures.”

  “Then, with your permission, I will now take my leave, Resident,” Boomsmer said, standing up. But the Resident remained seated and still lost in thought.

  “I wish we could have settled the matter in a friendly way. I wish the lords of Badung and Tahanan showed as much sense as our Gusti Nyoman here. They can only be beaten and they know it. Why in the devil’s name are they as obstinate as buffaloes?” he said to himself.

  “The tjokorda Sri Paduka Gde Ngu Alit of Badung promised a strict inquiry,” Boomsmer said, ironically stressing the long array of titles. “Has anything come of it?”

  “No, of course not. What do you suppose! I never expected he would admit the robbery. The Balinese are touchy, they have a tremendous sense of honor and a sort of pride we don’t understand. God knows what’s at the back of their minds to make them so foolishly, really idiotically, stubborn. I’ll tell you something, Boomsmer: I’ve been many years in the service here but I don’t understand these people; even yet, I don’t understand the first thing about them. If I did, then probably no punitive expedition would be necessary.”

  With that he went to the table and quickly put the letter in an official envelope without reading it again. The Resident is trying his hand at psychology, Boomsm
er thought contemptuously. He himself had had a better education than all these old-time officials and thought a good deal of himself in consequence. He was glad to be leaving Bali and it was a stroke of luck that he had this particular letter to deliver. He had friends in every one of the Government offices and an extensive correspondence. He knew how the wind blew. He knew that the Governor-General would be glad to have an excuse at last for proceeding against the southern territories with a clear case and a good conscience.

  “May I thank you once more, Resident, for the confidence you repose in me—I shall endeavour to conduct the matter in exact accordance with your views,” he said and bowed.

  “Yes, that’s right,” Berginck said, buttoning up his tunic again. “Best of luck in your new job. And when you get to Batavia, remember me to all the fellows at the Club.…”

  He gave a last look at the bulky envelope as it vanished into Boomsmer’s attaché case. “We’re sure to come across each other again,” he said, holding out his hand to the new Assistant-Resident. “And send Visser over to me at once, will you?” he added as Boomsmer bowed himself out.

  A large red-spotted gekko, which was clinging to the roof, uttered its cry seven times in succession. The Resident waited—but it did not come again. He sighed. Bad luck, he thought to himself. Superstition got a hold on one out there by degrees. He knocked off the long ash of his cigar and sent his servant for a gin.

  In the puri of Badung three large turtles had been killed and men had been busy since early morning stripping the rich flesh from them, cutting it up, seasoning it and impaling it on little wooden skewers. The smell of the preparations for the feast pervaded the courtyard where the cooking balés were. The satees with the turtle meat rested on two long bamboo poles and the men squatted alongside, turning them over the fire, hundreds and thousands of spits of roasting flesh.

  Suddenly there was a downpour which extinguished the fire. The rainy season had begun two weeks before; the sky was massed with heavy black clouds and looked like a meadow full of pregnant cows. The satees were rushed to safety in a balé with shouts of laughter. The rain poured down on the grass-thatched roofs and flowed off in streams. Fresh fires were kindled under shelter and the smoke curled up into the bamboo timbers and found no outlet, for the rain came down round the balés like a blanket. The smoke hung blue and acrid between the roof posts and stung the men’s eyes and made them water. Slave-girls came running with shrill cries to urge greater speed. From the next courtyard came the squealing of wild boars that were being slaughtered, and the quacking of ducks that were being caught. Naked children splashed through the broad puddles with hats as big as baskets on their heads or huge kladi leaves to protect them from the rain, carrying eggs, rice and vegetables of all kinds.

  Old women, famed for their skill at cooking, argued with young ones, who thought they knew better. Two slaves came along who were already drunk, and two others, who had also had something to do with preparing the palm wine, were having words and at last started fighting with their fists in the drenching, almost deafening torrent of rain. One of them ended in a puddle and the other went on victorious, with two large glass bottles attached to a pole on his shoulders, bottles such as had never been seen in the puri before.

  Three Chinese and an Arab were here, there and everywhere and in all the courtyards at once, giving orders and putting things right and wringing their hands—for they knew the ways of the white men and were therefore charged with superintending all the preparations. It was the birthday of the lord Alit, and the Resident of Bali and Lombok, the tuan Besar Mynheer Berginck was expected as guest.

  The wives’ quarters were in a turmoil that morning. Many of them had never seen a Dutchman and they were trembling with curiosity and excitement. The prince had commanded them to put on all their finery. Boxes and chests disgorged silver and gold stuffs, crowns of gold-foil, breast-bands of bright silks. Slave-girls were beaten and slave-girls were sent to the gardens for flowers for the hair. Slavegirls laughed and slave-girls cried. Wives came to blows and wives were reconciled and embraced each other. Wet, dripping, fragrant flowers were heaped in baskets on every side and were shared out with trembling hands. Rivers of oil were poured on heads of hair, nails and teeth were cleaned, a last search for lice set on foot. And all the while the rain hissed and pattered and rose up in little circular fountains from the puddles.

  Ida Katut, the little story-teller, was to be seen in the farther courtyard, rubbing his hands, looking, listening, eyes and ears everywhere at once. The men who brought the Badung gamelan came along under Chinese umbrellas of waxed paper. The celebrated gamelan of Kesiman was expected too, and nobly born guests from all the puris of the surrounding country. Guards in warlike array were posted on the two towers flanking the entrance, some armed with lances, some with long firearms. Within the wall, on a raised platform, were two guns. Dewa Gdé Molog, the commander-inchief himself, had stationed himself there to keep an eye on the men entrusted with the important and dangerous duty of firing the salute. They were Ksatrias, men of the warrior caste and without fear, and it was to be hoped the guns would be fired with success and not kill anybody. Kulkuls were beating everywhere—between the wairingin trees before the entrance, in the town of Badung, in the puri of the old lord of Pametjutan and in all villages from far inland to the roast of Sanur.

  The Government boat, the Zwaluw, had been sighted an hour ago and was now beating about behind the wall of rain in a heavy sea trying to make land. The gamelan was playing lively and festal airs on the beach without ceasing. Owing to the rain a sort of balé was quickly run up to shelter the musicians. Garlands on tall bamboo poles, decorated in every imaginable way, extended all along the village streets and in the niches for offerings at every gateway were woven streamers of palm-leaves in two colors, as at the New Year festival A group of court dignitaries, many pungga was and many relations of the prince were assembled in the courtyard of the punggawa of Sanur waiting for the signal which would tell them that the Resident had landed. The pedanda, Ida Bagus Rai, could be seen in full regalia, with the tall crown on his head and the bearer of his umbrella behind him, being carried in a chair down the street.

  Everyone was in the streets, rain or no rain, and the village priests had lighted fires in the court of the Coral Temple and brought offerings to stay the downpour. Volumes of thick white smoke rose from these sacrificial fires and all the people watched hopefully and waited for the rain to cease.

  When the fires had been alight long enough for a man to chew a plug of sirih, it did in fact stop raining and the sun suddenly shone out in a sky which became bluer every moment. The palm trees, washed and refreshed, sparkled and the moist air was heavy with the scent of flowering bushes. The gamelan played louder, as though it had got its second wind.

  Now the men on the beach could see a small boat leave the Zwaluw and make quickly for the shore, dancing like a cork. The dignitaries emerged from the courtyard, some carried in chairs, some riding on white horses. A squadron of mounted lancers dashed from the palm grove where they had been sheltering from the rain and trotted to the shore. Little fountains splashed up under their horses’ small hooves. Girls in beautiful dresses and breast-bands came out of the houses and stationed themselves on either side of the road, holding up offering plates in their left hands. White and red flags were flying, fringing the beach. And now the Resident could be seen, neither very tall nor very young, clothed in white, with many gold buttons and decorations on his coat, getting out of the boat and waving aside the two bearers, who offered to lift him on their shoulders and carry him across the wet sand.

  There was only one place on this morning of noise and excitement where silence reigned, and that was the house of the old lord of Pametjutan. The old man had passed the night in great pain and now lay exhausted on his couch, propped up with many kapok cushions at his back. The two balians of Badung and Taman Sari had been in attendance. They had massaged him and given him narcotics and now the prince felt easie
r. He pulled at his opium pipe and his head grew clearer and threw off the fevered haze of the night. Alit, the young lord, his nephew, whom he had adopted, squatted beside him and his usually limp face had a remarkable expression of concentration, of exertion, or perhaps preoccupation. He, too, was smoking opium to clear his head for the hard dunking this critical hour required. Unconsciously he let his fingers run up and down the vertebræ of Oka’s spine. The boy crouched at his feet and his warm smooth skin had a calming effect on his master.

  “We are agreed then, father,” Alit said. “We cannot submit to the shameless demands of the Dutch. They are only seeking an excuse to humble us. If we give way to them this time, they will find some new reason for oppressing us. They are proud, although they have no caste, and they have no manners. They do not seem to understand with whom they are dealing. Because a few lords have turned renegades and traitors they think they can cow us all. They will see that they are deceived about Badung.”

  The old lord looked long at the younger one before he spoke. “I am glad to hear you speak as you do, my son,” he said. “I am old and tired and sickness has made the fighting blood in me slothful and often clouds my thoughts. But you are young and you must oppose your heart and your forehead to the white men. I have watched you grow up, and I was not sure that you would hold to the way of our fathers. Sometimes you seemed to me to think more as a Brahman than as a Ksatria. I am glad that you have not forgotten your kris for your books.”

  “I have discoursed,” Alit replied, “in long prayers with our forefathers. My friend, the pedanda of Taman Sari, has spent many days and nights with me and helped me to find the way. The old books, my father, are as strong as the kris, and even stronger, when they are understood rightly. I have learnt one thing from them—that I am nothing, I, Alit, the lord of Badung. I am only a link in the chain, one single bamboo pole in the whole bridge. I must hand on what I have received from my mighty forefathers. I am not free and it is not permitted me to act by my own choice. I cannot give away or throw away or sell my inheritance and I must stand firm there where my birth has set me. That is what I have read in the books.”