Jean Marais bowed his head when he heard Nyai Ontosoroh’s request; he went pale, perhaps from fright.
“You don’t think you can do it, Jean?” I asked.
He sucked on his cornhusk cigarette, then blew out smoke-rings: “I’m only good with brush and palette, Minke.”
“All right, if you won’t come, I’m going to Kommer’s now, with the same request from Mama. I’ll drop in here on the way back.” Jean could say nothing, but his eyes watched me closely. “Perhaps you’ll have changed your mind by then,” I added.
But his face had changed when he heard Kommer was needed by Mama too. He wiped his mouth and said, “Go now. I’ll wait for you. Perhaps I’ll think differently then, Minke.”
I went.
I discovered that Kommer’s place was quite large. There were cages everywhere, with their animal occupants: pythons, some mouse deer, a bear, a leopard, forest roosters, orangutans. He himself was fast asleep in his own cage.
The woman of the house—I didn’t know if she was a Mixed-Blood or a nyai—who hadn’t given him a single child—awakened him. I sat on a rattan settee. He stuck his head out from behind a door, his eyes still bleary: “Have you been waiting long, Tuan Minke?” he asked in a sleepy voice, then disappeared.
He came out wearing batik pajamas. His face was wet and his eyes were still red, but on hearing Nyai’s request all sleepiness vanished.
“Good, let’s go,” he said. “Let me teach this Maurits Mellema a lesson. Give him a good going over, so he knows how it feels, hey?”
This woman followed the conversation from a distance. On hearing I had brought a request from Nyai Ontosoroh, I saw her face change. Her eyes shone with jealousy. She stood up and hurried away, disappearing behind an inner door.
Kommer stood up and went inside too. Not long after there were the sounds of an argument. I heard the noise of plates and cups being thrown about. A woman’s scream followed, and crying. But in the end Kommer appeared in fresh and tidy clothes. His hair was parted on the right and shone from too much hair oil. He didn’t wear the shoes he wore most days. In their place he had put on a pair of patent leather ones from Europe, the latest fashion. On his coat, as an adornment to his watch pocket, hung a leopard’s claw and a silver-bound wild boar’s tusk, souvenirs of his proudest hunting successes. He looked handsome and dashing, not down and out, not defeated.
“Can we confront him?” I asked, pretending not to have heard what had gone on inside.
“We’ll see what happens.”
“You’re optimistic,” I said as I climbed aboard the carriage.
“All great events should be witnessed first hand, Mr. Minke, and not just so you can write about them properly for the newspapers. Apart from that…” He too climbed aboard.
“What, Tuan Kommer?”
“…it makes our own lives fuller.”
If I hadn’t known he had proposed to Mama, perhaps I might have become a devoted admirer of the man. I admired what he had just said, but only a little.
The carriage set off nervously for Jean Marais’s house.
“He’s coming at five o’clock, hey? Just under two hours,” he said as he put his watch back in his pocket.
His eyes examined me. Perhaps he was surprised that I wasn’t admiring his wild boar’s tusk and his leopard’s claw. Perhaps he was surprised that I had no questions about them. Maybe he had forgotten he’d told me the stories of those souvenirs three times before.
Sitting beside me, he emanated an aroma of perfume that sent my head swimming. I sat silently, as if he were the normally attired Kommer. Who can forbid people from falling in or arousing love? Even the gods cannot. The first few pages of the Babad Tanah Jawi tells of how a god fell madly in love with a woman of the earth. And even the god of Death, the absolute ruler of Time, could not hold the other back, let alone break the power of their love.
The interesting thing was that the behavior of a middle-aged man who had fallen in love was no different from that of a teenager. Both turned into heroic exhibitionists, out to get everyone’s attention. No matter how clever a man is, said my grandmother’s maid when I was still very young, if he’s been smitten he becomes as stupid as the greatest idiot. Why should Kommer be an exception?
When we arrived at Jean Marais’s house, we were met by Maysoroh in a new dress. As soon as I climbed down, she held out her hands, wanting to be spoiled.
“You’re grown up now. It wouldn’t be right to carry you,” I said. She cuddled up to me, so I had to take her by the hand. She looked clean and very pretty. “You’re very pretty today, May. Give me a kiss.” She kissed me on the hand.
We walked inside hand in hand. Kommer was behind us. He didn’t seem interested in his surroundings. Perhaps he was busy readying himself for the big event or preparing himself to look as dashing as possible for Nyai.
And who wouldn’t have been surprised to see Jean Marais now? He rose from his chair with great difficulty. His smile was handsome. His mustache and beard had been combed.
“I combed Papa’s beard,” said Maysoroh proudly. “Isn’t he handsome now?”
Jean Marais nodded his impatience to leave straight away. His trousers had been ironed. His vest boasted silver buttons. Fantastic! Had he fallen in love with Nyai Ontosoroh too?
“Afternoon, Mr. Marais,” called Kommer.
“Afternoon, Mr. Kommer. A pity you didn’t catch that panther. A great pity that trap I designed didn’t work.”
“That panther escaped, but now we’re going after another, Mr. Marais: Engineer Mellema,” he said in Malay.
“That’s right!” answered Jean merrily.
“You’re ready for it by the look of you, Tuan.”
“Hmmmm. Let’s go.”
So it was that we set off in the carriage. I sat next to the driver; Kommer, Marais, and May sat in the back. I couldn’t quite catch what they were talking about.
“Is Nyai having a party?” whispered the driver, Marjuki.
“A party, Juki, a big party.”
The carriage sped on.
18
That afternoon thick gray clouds hung umbrellalike over the Surabaya. There was no wind, no thunder. The air was heavy with humidity. The trees around the house sleepily awaited the rain, and the clouds would not fulfill their promise.
Kommer and Jean Marais were in the front parlor. They sat close to each other, talking like two old bachelors planning illusory adventures.
In the back parlor, I found Mama talking to Minem’s old mother, who had been given the job of looking after Rono Mellema. Darsam was standing near the back door. Rono was nowhere to be seen.
“Ya, Nyai, I don’t know what that Minem really wants. She’s a crazy girl. A baby still feeding off the breast and she leaves him like he was just a pile of rags.”
“Darsam, check the gas tanks now. Quickly bathe and then go and turn on the lamps. Put on your very best clothes. And don’t forget to tend to your mustache.”
I told Mama that our friends had arrived, all nattily dressed and looking dashing. Mama smiled happily.
“Is the office closed, Ma?”
“No, Panji Darman’s there. Wash now, Child; dress in your best. We must be at our very best when we meet Engineer Mellema.”
She herself had changed her clothes and put on her makeup. She looked very attractive. For the first time, I noticed, she wore a necklace and a simple bracelet, along with her velvet slippers with silver embroidery and a black velvet kebaya. Dressed all in black like that she looked much younger, very pretty, very charismatic. No one could guess what terrible strength she was going to throw against her enemy later. Those words of hers, which earlier had impressed me so much, now seemed ready to be fulfilled: “Now all I’m left with is a mouth.”
After bathing and dressing, I prayed that she would not resort to violence. Her order to Darsam to dress in his best clothes meant that he was to meet the engineer too. Even that instruction to Darsam gave cause enough for worry.
I did not want to see our visitor die, cut down by Darsam’s machete. Nyai needed only to move her little finger or give Darsam the slightest nod, and the young engineer would die. No, Allah, no machete must cut apart his body, no blood bubble from his veins. Ya, Allah, protect us all from that horror. Give Nyai some sign, guide her in her confrontation with the enemy. Side now, Allah, with the weak!
Sitting in the back parlor, I observed her quietly thinking. Her face was clear and bright. I thanked God. She was holding Maysoroh’s little hand, paying no attention to the girl’s prattle.
May then came over and cuddled up to me. For the thousandth time she asked again: When will Annelies come home from Europe? She stopped her prattle when she heard Nyai call Minem’s mother. The middle-aged woman entered obediently and bent to the floor.
“Bring Rono here, and his sash too, so that I can carry him,” she ordered.
“Rono’s still asleep, Nyai.”
“Bring him anyway.”
May now cuddled up to Mama. Seeing Minem’s mother hand over a baby to Nyai, May asked straight away in a loud voice: “Who’s this, Nyai? He’s beautiful! Whose child, Nyai? Is it Annelies’s brother’s child?”
“Yes, he is a beautiful child, isn’t he?”
“Very beautiful, Nyai. A boy?”
“Of course, May. Rono, that’s his name.”
“Rono, Nyai? What a wonderful name.”
“You wanted to have a little brother, May. Think of him as your little brother now.”
Maysoroh jumped about the room excitedly. Then she took the baby’s clean little feet and kissed them.
“Give him here, Nyai, so I can have a turn at holding him,” pleaded May. Her eyes shone with great hope.
“He’s not a doll, May, he’s a little brother.”
“Come on, Nyai, let me hold him.”
And Nyai gave the baby to May to carry while still holding him herself. Then: “That’s enough, yes? Yes, that’s enough. Tomorrow you will have another chance.” Maysoroh seemed satisfied. She jumped around merrily.
“Ma,” I said slowly, “she wants a little brother or sister. She wants one very much.”
“You’d like a little brother, May?”
“Yes, Nyai, very much.”
“Does Mama remember that holy task, Ma? From her? She asked for a pretty little sister, Ma.”
Suddenly Mama’s face went gray. She gazed at me silently. She embraced Maysoroh with one arm and kissed her forehead.
“Doesn’t my little brother ever cry, Nyai?” asks May.
Only then did Mama and I realize that we had truly never heard Rono cry.
Minem’s mother brought in a new batik sash and Mama used it to carry Rono.
“A bottle and a napkin.”
As Minem’s mother left, Darsam entered, wearing his best clothes, shining black, made from the best cloth. His machete was in his belt. The tips of his destar stood up in challenge like his symmetrical, thick, curling, pitch-black mustache. He saluted with his right hand, now healed.
“I didn’t summon you, Darsam.”
“But there is something I have to report, Nyai,” he said.
“Oh yes. You’ve met with Jan Tantang.”
“That’s right, Nyai. He expressed a thousand thanks and will make use of your offer. Such a good man.”
“And you were going to kill him. You were crazy!”
“It was his own fault. There are two other matters, Nyai. That Sinyo Robert, the sinyo who came here once and then I took him home…”
“Robert Suurhof, Ma,” I added.
“He was made chief jail bully, Nyai, and beat up Jan Tantang in the European block. Sinyo Robert was then beaten up in turn by some Madurese. He didn’t die, Nyai—just some light injuries.”
“And what about your friends, Darsam?” she asked, referring to those who had been jailed for protesting Annelies’s being taken. She ignored Robert Suurhof.
“That’s the second thing, Nyai. They were sentenced to two months’ solitary confinement—no visitors, of course.”
“Is that all?”
“That’s all, Nyai.”
“Good. Wait with the other guests inside.”
He saluted once again and left us. Minem’s mother brought the bottle and napkin and Nyai tied them to the free end of the sash. Carrying Rono, rocking him that way, Nyai didn’t at all look like a grandmother with her grandson, but like a young mother with her first child.
“I forgot to tell you, Child: The court acknowledged the child as Rono Mellema, as Robert’s son, just after I received Robert’s letter and the police message from Los Angeles.”
“That’s good, Ma.”
I didn’t have the chance to check any further whether Rono really had never cried all that time. All my attention was concentrated on Mama. I wanted to be ready to move if she ordered Darsam to kill Mellema. I hadn’t heard her give any such order. But who could know for sure? In the meantime I could only hope and pray.
From the front parlor came the chimes of the pendulum clock; it was a quarter to five. Thunder began to growl in the distance, preceded each time by a flash of lightning. The day was becoming even gloomier.
“Come on, May, let’s go out front.” Maysoroh ran out ahead of us.
“Remember, Child,” whispered Nyai as we walked, “you will be facing your enemy, your own enemy. Don’t be silent as you usually are.”
“Ya, Ma, before him we have only our mouths. Nothing else.”
“So you need to understand now”—she observed my face—“he will never read your writings, so he must listen to your voice.”
“How do you know, Ma?”
“People greedy for money and property, Child, never read stories; they are barbarians. They have no concern for the fate of other people, let alone people who exist only in a story. His revenge against his father has now turned into revenge against everything that was ever close to his father. It’s a pity Dr. Martinet is in Europe at the moment. If he were here…”
She nodded to her guests. Jean Marais strove with difficulty to stand as if honoring a great queen.
“Forgive me, gentlemen, that we’re a little late,” she said in Malay. “We thank you for your willingness to be with us as we meet Engineer Maurits Mellema.” She went on, in a somewhat official manner, “We believe that at the very least you have come freely to stand beside us in this matter, even if you should decide not to join us in what we do later.” She turned to me and asked, “Where’s Darsam?”
Darsam wasn’t there. I rushed out back again. I found him changing his destar for the blue-black of a kain wulung. And now he was wearing the pocket watch I had given him. Before leaving he took his machete from his belt and inspected it, then walked hurriedly along behind me.
“Do you need to bring the machete, Darsam?” I asked without turning. “It’d be better if you left it at home.”
“And what is Darsam without his machete?” he asked.
As I turned I saw him stroking his mustache. His eyes shone; he knew that there was some great work to be done.
“It looks like something important is going to happen today, Young Master.”
“Yes. But don’t you do anything drastic this time.”
“This Darsam here, Young Master, he knows when he has to act. All is under control. Don’t worry.”
My anxiety was aroused once again on hearing his confident words.
“Watch out. Don’t cause any trouble. You have to realize, Darsam, this time Mama really needs your serious help. Her troubles are very great indeed. Don’t you add to them with something new.”
“Don’t worry, Young Master, I guarantee all will be well.”
The wind stilled; the world seemed to have stopped breathing. The layers of thick cloud began to sprinkle droplets of rain, hesitantly. The day became darker. Darsam lit the gas lamps. The front parlor and the back of the house were bathed in light; the house was magnificent in its grandness.
We sat on our chairs
, arranged in a row facing the front courtyard: Darsam, Jean Marais, Maysoroh Marais, Mama with Rono Mellema, Kommer, and me. In front of us was a table and on the other side an armchair for the honored guest.
It was all arranged so that the light from the lamps would shine down onto Engineer Maurits Mellema while his welcomers would be sheltered from it. Just like the preparations for a scene in a play, I thought—and that was exactly what it was.
No one spoke. Even Maysoroh, the little prattler, became submerged in the oppressive, mute atmopshere, more oppressive than when we were awaiting the decision of the court.
Three times already Kommer had taken out his watch and told us the time. And again now: “Two minutes past,” he said.
Darsam took out his gold watch, but said nothing.
The drizzle stopped. The atmosphere still oppressed us all.
At ten past five a navy carriage at last appeared in the front courtyard.
I rose and went to the edge of the steps. I had been given the task of greeting this man who had murdered my wife. I still hadn’t hit upon the right sentence: one evincing never-to-be-reconciled enmity or just the usual greeting to any guest?
The carriage stopped in front of the steps. A sailor jumped down from inside, saluted, and opened the door. A young officer alighted, complete with epaulettes on his shoulders and a sword at his waist. He was dressed all in white from the top of his head down to his shoes and laces. He stood erect on the ground, then straightened his shirt. The sailor, also dressed in white, saluted.
“Good afternoon.” I extended my greetings in Dutch. “Welcome, Mr. Mellema.”
He merely nodded without looking at me. His attitude was offensive and hurtful. I felt I wanted to punch in his head, though my arm wouldn’t have reached him because he was so tall. Yet I escorted my wife’s murderer inside. So this, it appeared, was Engineer Maurits Mellema: Tall, with the physique of a sportsman, broad and strong-chested, a long pointed nose like those of Greek statues, handsome, dashing, no mustache, no beard, gray eyes. He strode up the stairs with confident steps.
Child of All Nations Page 37