After the Ashes

by Sara K. Joiner

  Slamet turned and glared at me, and there was such anger in his expression that I stepped back. “You do not know. You cannot know. You are Dutch. You do what you want. You are not like us.”

  I felt as if the road had suddenly tilted, and I stumbled, almost dropping the basket. He snatched it from me.

  “What? Slamet, what do you mean?” Was he saying I did not understand him? Because I was Dutch?

  The air around us had changed. It was prickly and sharp, as if lightning were about to strike.

  “You Dutch,” Slamet said. “You treat us like dogs.” A rough tone had filled his voice, making him sound angrier than I had ever heard him. He had never spoken to me like this. I stared at him in shock.

  “Do you truly believe that?” I asked, bewildered. “That I treat you like a dog?”

  He slumped. “Not you.”

  “Then why would you say such a thing to me?”

  He shook his head and gazed down the road. His face was set hard like stone. I didn’t even see him blink.

  “Slamet?” I reached for his hand, but he jumped as if bitten by a Malayan pit viper.

  “Raharjo says this.”

  His brother. Why would Raharjo say these things about the Dutch, about me? He didn’t even know me. He sounded as awful as Brigitta.

  “What else does your brother say?” I asked.

  “He teaches me and tells stories.”

  “What kind of stories?” I thought of Butho Ijo, and the Dutch legends that my mother used to tell me, and the fairy tales I read when I was younger.

  Slamet wandered off the side of the road toward the beach. He stared into the distance, his black hair glowing in the bright light. I walked over to him, and he squatted down and drew a pattern of squiggles and dots in the sand. “Bad ones.” He stood and erased the pattern with his bare foot, his toes just darker than the wet sand.

  His eyes were fixed on the ground. I ducked my head and waved a hand in front of his face. “How bad?”

  With a wry smile that showed off the dimple in his cheek, he looked at me and said, “Bad. How much trouble Dutch are.”

  I waved my hands dismissively. “Not all of us. Only the girls Tante Greet wants me to be like.”

  He turned back to the road, no longer smiling. More wagons and people moved along the Great Post Road. Slamet stopped and watched them, his whole body tensing with anger. His hand moved toward his side, and I noticed a kris sitting at the waist of his sarong. Slamet had never worn the traditional Javanese dagger before. Where had he gotten that? The air turned prickly again, and I pushed up my spectacles.

  “Slamet?” I asked. “Is something wrong?”

  “Colonial overlords,” he muttered.

  “I beg your pardon?” The term sounded so strange coming from Slamet’s mouth. I myself had not heard it in years, not since the days when the adults would speak of the fighting in Aceh while Brigitta and I played. The natives there had always been fighting the Dutch, but surely Slamet could not feel that way here in Anjer—could he? What had Raharjo told him? What was I missing? I looked around at the people Slamet was watching. Women in colorful dresses and men in pale-colored suits strolled nearby. “They look like birds,” I said. “Don’t you think so?”

  “They are pain.”

  “Pain?” I let out a laugh. “They’re not hurting anyone.”

  He flushed. “Pain is not word.”

  I thought for a moment. “Trouble? Annoyance? Problem?”

  “Problem. Ya.” He nodded. “They are problem.”

  “But they’re not doing anything. They’re walking, like us.”

  “They are problem,” he repeated.

  With a soft laugh, I asked, “How?”

  “They are Dutch.”

  Taken aback by his response—and the tone in his voice—I stammered, “A-are you serious?”

  He kicked at the ground. The silence between us grew once more, and I suddenly felt a barrier forming in our friendship. I had to handle this carefully so no further distance was created. I needed Slamet. He was my friend.

  I tried to lighten the mood, saying, “Whatever you have in that basket smells delicious.”

  His eyes darted from person to person, never resting on anyone for longer than a few seconds.

  Poking his shoulder repeatedly until he turned to me, I gave him a sunny smile. “What’s in the basket?”

  “Pisang goreng,” he said, handing it back to me.

  “They smell wonderful.”

  “We made them at our home. Not your home.”

  My jaw dropped. “I never suggested—It wouldn’t matter to me if—” I rubbed my eyes in frustration. “What difference does it make where you made the fritters?”

  He scratched his arm. “We do not use Dutch food.”

  “Oh.” I didn’t know why he was telling me this. “Is that good?”

  “We use our food.”

  What he was trying to say finally made sense. “You mean you only used what you could share. Your own charity.”

  He smiled and nodded. “Ya.”

  I fell silent, unsure what else to say. We walked farther out of Anjer. Fewer people were on the road, and the jungle crept closer to the sea. Waves washed onshore, and seabirds screeched their harsh cries before diving under the surface for fish.

  We reached the mosque, which sat in an open stretch of land facing the beach. Surrounded by palm trees, the wooden structure had a porch around the entire building and two main doors. It looked comfortable and settled, like it had been there for many years.

  “What is it like inside?” I asked as we walked past the building.

  My question seemed to calm Slamet. “Peaceful.”

  I never felt that at mass. At mass I felt nervous. Uptight. Uncomfortable. Judged. Peaceful was what I felt in the jungle. “It’s lovely.”

  “It is best place. I learn many things.”

  “Such as?”

  “Stars. We watch them. Follow them.”

  “You could stargaze at our house,” I said. “Vader would teach you.”

  “Is not same.”

  “But Vader knows a great deal about astronomy.” He knew that. Vader had pointed out constellations to us when we were younger. Had Slamet forgotten?

  “Teacher knows more.” He took the basket from me and turned off the road, not even checking to see if I followed. Frowning at his back, I hurried to catch him.

  We walked toward the jungle for about ten minutes before we came upon a small village of kampongs partially hidden among the trees. Chickens ran around the houses, and I wondered how anyone knew whose chickens belonged to whom.

  Although the village was small, we turned corners so often, I lost my sense of direction.

  But Slamet knew where he was going. I stuck close to him, and we stopped in front of a tiny kampong. He stepped up to the door. “Purnama? Wangi? Ini Slamet.”

  A woman came to the door. “Slamet?” I had been expecting these friends to be elderly, like old Mrs. Schoonhoven. But this woman—Wangi—was about the same age as Indah, though she was thinner and looked more tired.

  She stared around Slamet at me, and he motioned me forward. “Wangi, ini adalah Katrien.”

  I smiled and gave her a slight bow. Every word of Javanese that I knew fled my mind. “It’s nice to meet you,” I said in Dutch, hoping she would understand my actions if not my words.

  She welcomed us both inside. Slamet handed her the basket of pisang goreng. They talked to each other in Javanese, and I stood in the doorway until Wangi motioned for me to sit down.

  She offered us the fritters, and I copied Slamet in taking one. Wangi sat next to a man lying on a rush mat. His face was haggard, with lines of pain around his mouth. She raised his shoulders and fed him a fritter.

  Slamet introduced him as Purnama. I smiled and nodded at him, but he only grimaced. The three of them talked, and I tried to follow the conversation. But they spoke too quickly for me to make out more than a few words.

&n
bsp; We had been there a short time when another voice sounded outside. “Wangi? Ini Raharjo.”

  Slamet’s brother was here? I sat up a little straighter, prepared to be as polite as possible. I would show Raharjo that not all Dutch people were awful. I would make him see what a good friend I was to Slamet.

  Chapter 20

  Wangi led Raharjo inside. He had a pleasant look about him; not what I expected from someone saying such hurtful things. Like many natives, he was not tall, and he wore a traditional sarong with a kris at his waist. The handle of the curvy dagger sat at a cocky angle. He smiled at Slamet and went over to greet Purnama. After a brief chat, Raharjo spotted me.

  His friendly expression fell and anger took its place. All my plans for being polite vanished, and I wished I could shrink into the corner to hide. Why was he mad at me? What did I do? I pushed my spectacles up.

  Slamet placed a hand on Raharjo’s and whispered something in his ear. Raharjo nodded but kept his fierce gaze on me.

  I felt like a mouse being stalked by a cat.

  Ambulo . . . ambulare . . . I tried to conjugate the Latin word for “walk” in my head, but I couldn’t. Raharjo scared me. I couldn’t even remember Latin verbs. My gaze bounced around the small space before it settled on Purnama.

  He had yet to sit upright, despite the visitors. He hadn’t spoken much. He wasn’t sweating with a fever, and his lips weren’t parched with thirst, but something was wrong with him. He looked only a few years older than Vader. When I looked up again, Slamet, Wangi and Raharjo were talking, but I couldn’t join them. My Javanese was not as good as Slamet’s Dutch. I managed to catch a few words of their conversation—sun, trees, monkeys.

  Monkeys. I could say something about that! I had no idea if anyone other than Slamet understood Dutch, but I nonetheless gathered my courage and said, “I saw a silvery gibbon a few weeks ago.”

  All three of them stared at me. Slamet narrowed his eyes and shook his head the tiniest bit.

  “Ma’af,” I apologized, my face heating up. The earthen floor under the mat suddenly seemed like the best place to focus my attention, and I traced patterns in the dirt until they began talking again. Raharjo continued to throw ugly looks my way, and Slamet whispered to his brother after every mean glance. I was certain Raharjo said something else about monkeys.

  The tension in the house grew the longer we stayed. It swirled around me like humidity on a hot day. When did we plan to leave? I could make my own excuses, but I had gotten utterly lost and wasn’t sure I would be able to make it back on my own.

  A cool breeze blew in through the door, and I turned my face to catch it. Rain fell outside. Not too hard, but not too gentle either. It was the kind of rain that cooled the air while it fell but made the afternoon steamy when it stopped.

  Suddenly Purnama moaned and began shaking his head. “Oh,” I cried. In one motion, I stood, snatched my hat off my head and held it over Purnama’s face.

  Raharjo jumped up and glared, but Slamet laughed and said something to Wangi. She spoke to me directly, but I didn’t understand a word.

  Slamet translated. “You are good to keep Purnama out of rain, she says.”

  “The roof needs new thatch,” I said, looking up at the leak.

  Raharjo walked to the door, speaking the whole time.

  Slamet furrowed his brow and said something to his brother, then turned to me. “He will fix.”

  That wasn’t all Raharjo had said, but I didn’t want to know the rest.

  Wangi and Slamet dragged Purnama on his rush mat away from the leak, and I placed my hat back on my head. My hair would get damp, but I didn’t mind.

  By that time, the rain had stopped.

  Purnama motioned for me to come over to him. I knelt down. “Terima kasih,” he said with a painful grimace.

  “It was my pleasure.” I smiled at him.

  At last, Slamet said our good-byes.

  “Wait,” he said, after we walked outside. He ran over to his brother, who was bundling thatch. They spoke briefly, smiled at each other and parted.

  As Slamet rejoined me, Raharjo called after him, “She is dangerous,” and pointed to me. My lips parted to reply before I realized he had spoken in Dutch.

  How could I be dangerous? I wasn’t the one scaring people. I pushed my spectacles up. Raharjo was a hate-filled, nasty person. What had I ever done to him?

  Slamet and I followed the circuitous route out of the village. Chickens ran from us, and I remembered the time long ago when we had chased chickens around Slamet’s kampong to see how far they would fly. Sometimes the birds ran into the house, and Indah had to chase them out.

  Purnama didn’t look able to chase chickens. “What’s the matter with Purnama?” I asked. “Why was he lying on that rush mat?”

  Slamet slapped a mosquito. “He is sick.”

  “Ja, but what’s wrong with him?”

  He pointed to his back. “He has hurt.”

  “He’s injured?” I remembered the grimaces on Purnama’s face. “Is he in pain?”

  Slamet nodded. “Ya.”

  “How did he hurt himself?” I asked, stepping around a puddle.

  “He falls from coffee tree.”

  I gasped. “That’s terrible.”

  “He cannot walk. He cannot feel.” Slamet pointed to his chest and then swept his arm down his body.

  “Oh, no. Poor Purnama. And Wangi takes care of him?”

  He nodded again. “Ya. She is his wife. She works for coffee owner. She stops when Purnama falls.”

  “What a dreadful thing to have happen.” If something ever happened to Vader, what would Tante Greet and I do? Probably move in with Oom Maarten.

  “The coffee owner does not help. Wangi does not work there.”

  “What do you mean he doesn’t help? He didn’t send for a doctor to see Purnama? He didn’t offer any money?”

  Slamet shrugged. “He is Dutch.”

  “He’s a horrible person,” I huffed.

  “Ya, he is Dutch.”

  “That has nothing to do with it. He’s awful and cruel.” Slamet’s insistence that the coffee plantation owner acted so callously because he was Dutch was unsettling. “And Wangi had to stop working to take care of her husband?”

  He nodded.

  “They are fortunate to have friends to help them.” Vader’s words about needing people came back to me. Would anyone help me if I were in that position? Anyone other than my family? The questions made me uncomfortable and I brushed them away.

  We walked in silence toward the mosque. When we passed it and were back on the Great Post Road, I asked, “Why did Raharjo say I was dangerous?”

  Slamet blushed and turned his face from mine. “He does not say—”

  “Ja, he did. I heard him. I didn’t even know he spoke Dutch.”

  He shook his head. “He does not mean . . . he says wrong word.”

  “Then what did he mean?”

  “You are Dutch.”

  “It’s hard to confuse Dutch and dangerous. He sounded like he was warning you about me. Why? What have I ever done?” I pushed my spectacles up.

  “You are Dutch.”

  “I’m not Dutch, I’m Javanese. I was born here. Like you.”

  “You are Dutch,” he insisted.

  I growled and threw my hands up in frustration. “You keep saying that. Am I supposed to know why that’s a problem?”

  “You run our lives.”

  I stopped walking. “I don’t run your life. Didn’t we just visit your friends?”

  “Ya, but you come.”

  “You told me I could,” I pointed out.

  “You do not ask,” he said. “You say, ‘I will come.’ This is way you run our lives.”

  Did I do that? I . . . I did. “But you still agreed,” I argued. “You didn’t say I couldn’t come. You could have.”

  With a disbelieving look, he asked, “Why do you come?”

  “I wanted to spend time with you. I missed you.�
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  “You want me around.”

  “Of course I do. You’re my friend.”

  “What if I do not want to be friends?”

  “What?” My heart stopped at his words. “That’s not true, is it?”

  He sighed. “I do not know.”

  “Why do you keep saying these awful things?”

  “You are Dutch.”

  Fed up, I rubbed my eyes. “Fine, Slamet. When you decide to treat me like your friend again, when you decide to act like the boy who used to climb trees and swim in the ocean and watch the stars with me, I’ll be here. That boy is my friend.” I stalked off and left him on the road. He called after me, but I didn’t stop and refused to look back.

  23 JULY 1883

  My dear Oom Maarten,

  Krakatau continues to send smoke up into the sky. But Vader doesn’t seem bothered by it anymore. I suppose it’s one of those parts of life that we have to learn to live with.

  I’ve been having problems with Slamet. He said strange things to me about how the Dutch treat native people. I know there are some Dutch people who treat the natives terribly, but I don’t think I’ve ever been mean to Slamet. At least not intentionally. When I asked him to explain why he’s angry about it, he said he’s heard bad stories about the Dutch from his brother Raharjo.

  What do you think it could mean? Is Raharjo lying to Slamet? Why would he do that?

  When I met Raharjo, he called me dangerous. Slamet said he meant to say Dutch, but I don’t believe him. I yelled at him, and I’m not sure we’re friends anymore. What will I do without Slamet?

  In other bad news, my punishment has not been lifted. I’m still only allowed to explore the jungle one time a week. But in good news, last week I spotted a wanderer butterfly in a clearing. It had the most beautiful silvery blue-and-black wings, and it dipped and dived around me. I wish you could have seen it. It would make a beautiful wallpaper pattern. Have you decided which one you will choose?

  I haven’t found any stag beetles lately. I still have room in my twenty-sixth case for more specimens, but the beetles seem to have vanished from the jungle. It’s so strange. I usually find them all around. I wonder where they could be.

  It’s almost time for dinner, so I’ll finish this letter. I miss you and send