The Ten Thousand Things

by Maria Dermout

  Only days later, at the bay in the evening, the grandmother said musingly, as she had a way of doing, “it is a pity you forgot to say goodbye to the bibi that time, she is offended now; did you like the beads? those beads are dug up from old graves, that is why they are called pearls from the earth, not from the sea—the wrong pearls; they have already been buried with somebody once. It isn’t that they necessarily bring ill luck, oh no, some people say the opposite, that they bring good luck, and they like to have them because they think they’re beautiful—you too, don’t you, granddaughter? But then, they have already been buried once with somebody, perhaps you would not be able to forget that—the pearls from the sea in the sea, the pearls from the earth in the earth, better leave it that way.”

  Felicia did not know what to answer except yes.

  And much later again, in the time that Himpies was going to be seven years old and ready for school, it happened with the shell strings; that was the end of the bibi.

  Felicia and her grandmother had been busy in the garden, they had forgotten that the bibi was coming that morning, and when the old woman remembered she cried, “go quickly, quickly!”

  The bibi was already there. She was not sitting on the couch but on the edge of the side gallery, close to the pillar where the grandmother often sat at night; her legs were dangling over the Garden—the two children were with her.

  Himpies stood closest to her, he was almost in her lap and she held her basket in front of him. On top a string of gleaming white shells was lying, “porcelana shells.” Some other strings the child had taken out and wound around himself: one was wound loosely around his neck a few times, the other all around his arm from the shoulder to the hand, still another he held up with both hands—the long white string hung in an arc, almost touching the ground. He was wearing only a little white shirt and white underpants; he was very tanned, not dark brown, a light goldish brown; his hair bleached almost yellow, much too long, combed stiffly down on both sides of his face like a page boy’s.

  He did not look left or right, stood completely motionless, silent, with wide-open eyes, frightened and delighted at once —entranced by the splendor of the gleaming shell strings around him.

  On one side the dark bent old woman, repeating softly, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful; behind him his friend Domingoes in a dark-blue playsuit who watched and called to him from time to time, “Himpies, don’t do it! don’t do it!”—all against the background of huge green trees and the flickering bright blue of the bay in the sun.

  Felicia had not noticed her grandmother, who had come through the outbuildings and the passageways, who was now standing behind the bibi in her old garden slippers, her wrinkled sarong and jacket; she looked very tired, very pale, and she stared as did Felicia at the child in his attire.

  “Himpies, take those strings off! they are not yours, you must give them back immediately to the—peddler woman”; she enunciated each word distinctly and she said “peddler woman”—and that was the bibi!

  The bibi had remained seated with her back toward the grandmother and now, without a word, she accepted the strings which the child handed to her slowly and unwillingly. The grandmother clapped her hands, called “Sjeba!” and Sjeba, tall and thin and untidily dressed, came running, came down the stairs from the outbuilding, through the garden toward the children; she pretended not to see the bibi.

  “Take our children along, Sjeba, make Himpies wash his hands in the bathroom, scrub them with soap!”

  “Yes, sure, old mistress,” Sjeba said with a loud voice.

  “See to it that the rowers and the helmsman have something to eat and to drink, and have them told that when they’re rested they can take—” would she again say “peddler woman”?—“take her back.”

  “Yes, sure, old mistress,” Sjeba said again, she took Himpies and Domingoes each by a hand and pulled them along with her—Himpies looked back once.

  When they had gone the bibi turned to the grandmother but remained seated with the basket in her lap, “the child liked the shells, he wanted to play with them,” she said with that coaxing voice in which there was yet something of a threat, “the mother of the child saw it and said nothing.” The grandmother did not let her finish, “the child is still a small child,” she said shortly, “and foolish, the mother is also still young and she has not been here for long, she is foolish too, but you and I, we are old and no longer foolish. We know—we have been taught—or aren’t these the shell strings for the Mountain Alfuras of Ceram, for when they go head-hunting, when they lie in wait behind trees and shoot with arrows, when so much blood flows over the earth—” she took another step toward the bibi—“and you dare bring those shell strings here, here in my garden, to me, a white woman, a Christian woman, to our children here, who are Christian children who have done harm to no one—everyone has his own place, to each his own, that we know, you and I, that we have been taught! Or don’t you know that yet? Haven’t you been taught that?”

  The bibi put her basket down beside her and got up; she stood in the garden, leaned on her knees against the edge of the gallery, turned her head toward the grandmother, stretched out both hands—“I ask forgiveness, madam,” she said.

  “You’d better go ask the Mountain Alfuras of Ceram for forgiveness, and the little child here,” the grandmother said.

  But she made her come up and sit on the couch, got coffee and sweets, took her purse and put five guilders on the table, “so that you won’t have a loss today,” she said, “for I am tired, I want to go and rest.” She hesitated a moment, then added “too bad that you are going on a journey, bibi, that you won’t be able to come to the Small Garden any more.”

  The bibi immediately took this up and wailed, “Yes! on such a very long journey! only the Lord Allah knows whether I’ll ever return from such a long journey.”

  The grandmother kept looking at her—would she bid her goodbye after all those years? shake hands? Slowly she shook her head, turned and started toward her room, “granddaughter,” she said, “will you come with me and help me?” She had never asked that before.

  Felicia went along with her; the bibi was left alone in the side gallery, she drank her coffee, ate the sweets, took the money, repacked her basket, went down the stairs toward the beach and climbed into the proa. After a while the rowers came, and the helmsman who pushed the boat off.

  When they rowed away someone gave one ringing blow on the slave bell which resounded for a long time over the inner bay—Sjeba!

  After that there was the crash of breaking china: the plate, the cup and the saucer.

  “She doesn’t drink from our things, we not from hers!” Sjeba came to announce around the corner of the door, and vanished again. Felicia looked at her grandmother to see her reaction: she was so careful with things. The old woman thought for a moment. “Very good is Sjeba, granddaughter,” she said.

  HIMPIES

  1.

  AND SO the bibi would not come back to the Small Garden with her pearls from the sea and from the earth, the scents of “Happy Arabia” and the congealed tears of the prophet.

  The old goldsmith left too; his discontented young wife finally won that battle. He took his brazier with him, his bellows, his models: a pomegranate, a snail’s head and tail; and also his little son Domingoes.

  Himpies cried his first real tears.

  The grandmother decided that this was the moment to stop selling “the other things”: medicines, scents, amber balls. They could go on making the bracelets against rheumatism, but without the gold decoration (after all, gold was not so very good for rheumatism), and send them directly to those who put in their orders by mail. And for the rest, they would supply only the two hotels and the military hospital: milk, eggs, fruits and vegetables—no pickles, no mussel sauces, “then we are no longer real tradeswomen, granddaughter, then they can’t tease Himpies about us in school.”

  And in time the letter, the one letter, also came.

  Felicia’s
father had written it: the “legal counsel” of her mother had started all over again with his search and this time he had found a trail—not America, but the south of France, on the other side of Marseille, the cheap side, toward Spain. The man himself had not been found, for he had died there some years earlier, of pneumonia. At first he had had a bit of money, the landlady at his last boardinghouse had related, but that had run out—rather lonely, not very happy—a death certificate was enclosed and her father had written in the corner of his letter R.I.P., in three capitals.

  Felicia and her grandmother were sitting together on the couch in the side gallery, sorting out the mail: thirty Locomotives (a whole month of the Java daily paper), two Gracieuses (the fashion magazine from Holland), and orders for bracelets, a few letters.

  Felicia had read her letter—not far away then, not to America, not to North America nor to South America, just around the corner had been far enough, the stolen Snake with the Carbuncle Stone in his hand, and without having seen the child, and at the same time rather lonely, not very happy—she stared at that R.I.P., had her father liked him too then? She would have to show the letter to her grandmother or tell her—no, that she couldn’t do. She could not listen to what she would say: “such a pity, granddaughter,” or “perhaps it’s better this way; now when they ask Himpies in school about his father he will not have to lie” or “it won’t make Himpies very sad, you mustn’t forget that he has never seen him” or (she wouldn’t say it but she would think it) “who is to blame? did your mother, with all her money . . . ?” and “well, it is all over, for him too, if we only remain proud people, sweet granddaughter”—oh, she couldn’t!

  Yet her grandmother had to know; she pushed the letter toward her.

  The old woman took the two sheets out of the envelope and read them: the note from “my son Willem” and the death certificate and once more the note, put the sheets back into the envelope and gave it to Felicia; she sat still for a moment, huddled, nodded a few times without looking at Felicia, stared ahead with eyes as darkly tired as those of the bibi, not saying a word—outside, the trees, the inner bay, the sky —everything—the world—“yes,” she said then, “yes, granddaughter,” and nothing else.

  That was even worse.

  The following week Felicia took Himpies to the town at the outer bay, to the schoolteacher’s house where he would live. On Saturday afternoons after school he could come home with the milk proa and go back early Monday morning.

  The town at the outer bay now dropped the “young” in front of her name and called her “the lady of the Small Garden”—as if that were a different person. And she was different: her husband dead, and her child no longer living with her in the same house.

  It was all different: nothing was tugging at her any more, there were no possibilities, no choices. It was all here and now, except one thing: she would see to it that her son Himpies had a decent education, arms against life, boots and spurs, a helmet and a shield; money is still a strong shield!

  So instead of taking it a little easier now, she started all kinds of enterprises. She sent for young cattle from Bali, the livestock had to be improved; she ordered seeds and cuttings from everywhere, asked advice from the Government Agricultural Service, planted new fruit trees, vegetables and also flowers. She tried to grow rice in the Garden—it didn’t work; then she started to plant the hills with coco palms—that did work.

  The grandmother didn’t protest, she helped her where she could but she did not say much. The servants—there were more and more servants at the Garden—did say things —that eternal rushing and pushing! Especially Sjeba; she had adopted the habit of staring into space at each new request by Felicia, frowning angrily and drawling “why,” a long drawn-out “whyyyy?”

  In addition to all that Felicia occupied herself more than ever with the child; during the week she again went regularly to the town and came to the school to get him, asked him what he had learned.

  But school learning alone is not sufficient. She practiced for hours on her piano so that she could teach him well, she sang songs with him at the piano, and she wanted him to learn to play the bamboo flute.

  Books were ordered to read from; and she told him all the stories she had been told, also the stories of the island.

  In the town he had to go with her to see the Frenchman who had the collection of butterflies and insects—trays and trays full of brilliant color.

  And also the old recluse who had the largest coral collection in the Moluccas; he made landscapes from it with rocks and stones, gnarled pieces of wood, whitened bones of animals, everything that washes ashore on a beach. He did not like to show them to anyone—but if the lady from the Small Garden insisted . . .

  Then all that had to make way for the curiosities cabinet: Himpies should have the most beautiful, the largest collection of shells in the Moluccas, for now and for later!

  It even involved the bibi.

  One day the steersman of the milk proa brought a piece of cloth with a shell in it, “from the bibi, a present for the boy Himpies and to ask forgiveness,” he said.

  The grandmother was holding it irresolutely—Himpies wasn’t there—but when Felicia saw it, she cried, “Grandmother! I think that is the ‘Amoret Harp,’ that is a very rare one, rarer even than the ‘double Venus-heart’ ” and she immediately went to look it up in Mr. Rumphius’s book.

  It was the Amoret Harp.

  “What should we do with it?” the grandmother asked.

  “Do!” said Felicia, “nothing, put it in the drawer of the cabinet.”

  “I’m not sure, granddaughter,” said the grandmother.

  She wanted Felicia at least to find out how much the shell was worth. That was not difficult: Felicia was constantly buying and trading shells in those days.

  The Amoret Harp was a very expensive shell.

  The grandmother wrapped money in a piece of paper and put it in a box with some jars of candied fruits and gave it to the steersman—a present for the bibi in return, and to thank her—that was what he should say. She did not invite the bibi back to the Garden.

  In that way the Amoret Harp found its place in the top drawer.

  Every new shell was immediately looked up in Rumphius: what kind, family, class? The Latin names were too difficult but Felicia thought that Himpies could learn the Dutch names by heart. From time to time, on Sundays, she opened the drawers, pointed them out and rehearsed him; and when he made a mistake she became angry.

  Once she bought a little shell which was called “Cinderella.” She embroidered a story around it for Himpies which would help him to remember all the names—there were one hundred names of shells in the story. It started like this: once “Cinderella” set out to find her prince. A “white donkey” was waiting to carry her, for she did not know how far she would have to go. All kinds of animals and birds came with her: in front, a “white tiger” and a “yellow tiger” to clear the road for her, “scorpions” and “centipedes” and “little snakes”; and around her head flew “pigeons” and “partridges”—and Felicia went on with a long list of shells that all had names of animals and birds.

  “And Cinderella met a ‘prince’s funeral,’ ” she said, “but luckily enough it was not her prince who was being buried.

  “After a time she found her own prince, and they went back together. First they gave presents to each other: she gave him an ‘elephant’s tooth’ and ‘onyx from the sea,’ and he gave her the ‘double Venus-heart.’ And she wore a ‘royal mantle,’ and he had a ‘green crown’ on his head.

  “And they did not want to live in a house together,” Felicia ended, “but in a tower: that tower was called ‘Tour de Bra.’ ”

  She liked the story herself, she read it aloud and pointed out the shells as she went along. And when she had finished she saw how they looked at each other, the old great-grandmother and the young great-grandson, and they smiled, and did not say anything immediately. They liked it! They liked it that she
, Felicia, liked it so, and had so much pleasure in the shells, and in all the weird names they had—and she realized that she should leave the child alone in the future.

  He was an amenable child who wanted to obey; every Monday morning he went to the school in town without fussing—at the Small Garden there was no school, and a child has to go to school. He worked at his studies—not very hard, just enough to pass. But he did not want the other things—study piano, play the flute, sing songs—imagine! He did not like to be read to, he did not care for stuffed animals and coral landscapes and shells; how on earth could he remember all those names? He did like the curiosities cabinet, because it belonged to the Garden—and he loved the Garden.

  He loved it in his own way—without much ado, as it was, as it had been for seven years for the two children Domingoes and Himpies. They had never just looked at it, they had never seen that the Garden was “beautiful” and so terribly far away and quiet, they had not seen the fear in the Garden. Together they had never been afraid.

  They had not believed in the terrible Leviathan; they had even plagued the coral fishers to bring in another one! The fishers hadn’t, it would be a hard job and how much would it be worth to the old lady? Moreover two of those shells together would attract lightning.

  They had helped dress and paint the palm-wine mannikin —a fresh rattan thorn straight through him—and when they were older it was they who always put him up in the palm trees. There was nothing more exciting than to climb the rattan rope ladder into a high tree and hide yourself in the green foliage, for hours.

  The stories of the man with the blue hair about his son had not scared them either: the storming of a fort, the crackling of rifles (he could imitate that very well), fight, get wounded, die—his son was always being wounded, gravely wounded, lots of blood, he never died.

  But dying was not something strange.

  They had their own little graveyard in the woods for all the animals they had kept which had died: a wounded turtle that had lived on for a long time in a tub of sea water and had bitten their fingers when they fed it, a young deer, a cassowary chick which followed them everywhere when they stamped hard on the ground as the mother cassowary does, and a lot of squirrels and birds—the black parrot with the lame leg had a mausoleum in the middle of the cemetery.