‘Ahee! Anna, that is not right. Allah made mankind and only man can invent a clock, a donkey can’t, a heron that lands on water but doesn’t sink can’t. Allah akbar!’
Anna had removed her paternal grandfather’s gold watch and fob chain from the tin box and placed it in her dishtowel bag. She reasoned that the colonel might not accept money and that attempting to bribe him might have serious consequences, but he might accept the gift of Koos Van Heerden’s beautiful monogrammed watch. This, if he should hand her over to the kempeitai, possessed the added advantage of not suggesting that there was money to be gained. An antique gold fob watch was just the kind of heirloom a Dutch family would hang on to as long as possible, using its value only in a desperate situation.
As she approached the waiting becak she could see that Til was anything but his usual cheerful self. She was accustomed to being met with an ebullient welcome. Til had made the art of greeting his speciality, but now he stood with his toes wiggling in the dust and his head silently bowed.
‘What is it, Til? Have I done something to hurt you?’ Anna asked, her tone concerned.
Til looked up slowly. ‘Anna, we are not fools. I got Budi’s message and I know where is that house. We know what you are going to do. It is not right. Let me take you to the mountains. I have friends who will protect you and only for a small bribe that I will pay myself. Kiki will take care of your father and we will honour him and look after him. You will be safe.’
Anna was deeply touched, but stood her ground. ‘Til, you are fools, all of you. Tongues have wagged, you said yourself people are reporting others to the Japan polisi to settle old scores. There is bound to be envy over Ratih buying the restaurant. It is my fault entirely. I was clumsy with the arrangements. Now, if the kempeitai don’t find me soon, they will persuade you in their own ways to tell them where I am. You, Ratih, Budi, even the lieutenant will be made to suffer.’
‘Allah says…’
‘Stop right there, Til! I don’t want to hear what Allah says. I just want you to take me to the Japanese colonel’s house.’
But Til persisted. ‘It is not right, Anna. You have made us rich. With Lo Wok, you preserved our honour. Budi will be educated. Now you ask us to stand by, to protect our own arses, when you are in great danger?’ He looked up. ‘How can we do this?’
Anna glanced at her watch, appearing to ignore his protests. ‘We must get going. I will tell you what you can do to preserve your honour on the way.’ Anna looked at the becak. ‘Ah, thank you, you have attached the brothel curtain.’
‘It is me who is the whore!’ Til said, climbing unhappily into the tricycle saddle.
On the way Anna outlined what she wanted, pledging Til to take care of the tin box. He seemed delighted with the trust placed in him and Anna felt from his tone of voice that he believed the family honour, in some part, was restored. By the time she had completed talking, Anna heard the crunch of the tyres on gravel. ‘We are here, Anna,’ Til said. ‘It is the old house for the owner of the brewery. He was very rich, the Dutch they like much the beer.’
Anna parted the curtain. In the weeks she had been in Tjilatjap she had seen the neglect of the big houses, especially the grand gardens. The locals who had moved into the larger homes, often three or four families at a time, had no eye or desire or even time for clipped lawns, trimmed hedges, pruned shrubs and neatly planted flowerbeds. Already the stronger plants, creepers and hibiscus hedges, bamboo and bougainvillea, were flexing their muscles, these bullies of the tropical gardens elbowing their way into space they had previously been denied. Small, more delicate exotic plants quickly abandoned the struggle to exist and withered or crept surreptitiously into dark, damp corners of foliage to hide. Strangler vines stretched over arbours, and pumpkins, feasting on the sun, imbibed its gold and grew rotund, the big, hairy-leafed vines sprawled over driveways and the edges of neglected paths. Hastily constructed henhouses sat on previously immaculate lawns, the fowls permitted to scratch for worms since their eggs were far more important to the new occupants than the pointless plants they uprooted. Circular gardens cut into large lawns, previously featuring exotic blooms imported from all over the world, were summarily ripped out and vegetables planted — bok choy, spinach, garlic, chillies, cabbage, tomatoes, curry leaf and shallots, all the common tumble and sizzle that went into the family wok.
But not so at the ex-brewer’s mansion, now commandeered by the military. Two guards by the entrance of the wrought-iron gates, seeing a woman in a becak, waved them in. Gardeners seemed to be scurrying everywhere, pushing wheelbarrows, mowing lawns, trimming hedges, digging, turning compost and raking the leaves from under a large poinciana tree, its umbrella shape partially shading the driveway. They were short, thickset, shirtless men, their boots and socks discarded, and wearing only khaki trousers. That their solid slightly bandy legs were swathed below the knees in dirty puttees was the only testimony to the fact that they were Japanese soldiers. Even their ubiquitous forage caps had been replaced with wide-brimmed local straw hats.
Despite the humble becak in which she arrived, they bowed respectfully as she passed. Anna had never seen happier Japanese soldiers. When Til asked in Javanese how he might get to the back door they obviously didn’t understand, though one of them who was on his knees clipping the edge of the lawn grinned and pointed to the front door and then with a bent forefinger made an imaginary knocking gesture in the air.
Anna asked Til to wait for her outside the gates, instructing him to leave if she hadn’t returned in two hours, then handing him a few coins so that any of the soldier gardeners observing would think he was simply a becak driver dropping off a passenger.
Til nodded, his face showing concern. ‘I will wait longer, until sunset,’ he announced.
Anna, standing in the driveway near the front steps of the mansion, faced an immediate dilemma. If she walked to the rear of the house and knocked politely this would immediately indicate her subservience. While she had come as a supplicant she wasn’t a servant and she instinctively realised that the manner of her arrival and the first few moments of being admitted were critical. On the other hand, if she pressed the polished brass bell on the front door announcing her arrival with a ringing that filled the interior of the mansion, it might be taken as a sign of arrogance, even of defiance.
The Japanese, she knew, did not take easily to defiance, and arrogance was a characteristic they reserved for themselves. After all, it was Colonel Konoe who had authorised the execution of the four Chinese and had stood calmly by as Captain Takahashi had severed their heads. This did not promise a man of sensitivity, and instead suggested one possessed of a coldness and arrogance of manner. Anna knew he was unlikely to answer the doorbell himself. Under the circumstances she didn’t know what to expect, perhaps a servant or a sergeant.
Gathering all her courage she climbed the steps. To her right grew a frangipani tree and impulsively she reached out and plucked one of the delicately perfumed yellow and white blossoms and tucked it into her hair above her ear. With her hand trembling slightly she took a deep breath and pushed the bell, a moment later hearing its sharp ring through the interior of the house.
Anna seemed to be waiting ages and was about to press the bell once again when she heard the slap of slippers on a wooden floor. One half of the impressive teak front door opened to reveal a Japanese woman of indeterminate age, anything between forty-five and fifty-five. She wore a working kimono and soft black cotton slippers. She smiled but did not speak.
Anna was surprised to be confronted by a Japanese woman and, knowing no Japanese, spoke in the native language. ‘Good afternoon, Mother,’ she began respectfully in the Javanese manner. ‘I have come to see Colonel Konoe.’
‘Oh, the Colonel Konoe-san is not yet here, he will arrive shortly. Will you wait for him?’ she answered in perfect Javanese.
Anna smiled, anxious not to admit she lacked an appointment to see him. ‘You
speak Javanese very well, Mother.’
The woman laughed. ‘I was born in Tjilatjap. My honourable parents came here in 1895 and I was born a year later. My husband, Onishi Tokuma, he is now the mayor, has granted me the honour of being mama-san for the colonel-san. Come, you can wait on the back verandah, that is where he will take his lunch.’
‘No, I can wait outside,’ Anna said quickly, wondering to what lengths the snivelling little sycophant, the Mayor of the Squashed Hat, would go to ingratiate himself with the military command. What kind of man would lend his wife to the colonel as a servant, doubtless unpaid?
‘No, no, come inside,’ the mayor’s wife-turned-housemaid insisted, nodding her head towards the interior of the house while opening the door a little wider.
Anna followed her into the mansion that proved to be in the Dutch style in every respect — highly polished teak floors; expensive Turkish and Persian carpets; clumsy, carved massive wooden furniture; over-upholstered maroon velvet lounges and chairs; a huge breakfront sideboard, now empty, that would have originally displayed expensive china objets d’art such as figurines and antique Delft crockery. Picture hooks remained where family portraits and other paintings had once hung. The heavy silk-lined drapes were in the cold-climate European style, bunched and knotted at the centre by a gold tasselled rope, the whole effect making no concession to the tropical climate but simply intended to impress.
The only acknowledgement that the house was situated within the tropics was the large, wooden-paddled ceiling fans that hung in every room. Anna had been in dozens of similar big houses belonging to wealthy school and family friends. Grootehuis hadn’t been very different. Anna wondered at the expensive oriental carpets — surely the brewery owner would have taken them with him when he fled Java?
The Japanese housekeeper led her to the rear of the house and onto the stone-flagged verandah. Here the climate was finally acknowledged, with large rattan and bamboo armchairs cushioned in light, coloured cottons. There was a low bamboo coffee table, its surface a sheet of clear polished glass, while several small side tables made up the remainder of the casual furniture.
On the coffee table stood a glass vase filled with a meticulous arrangement of yellow and white dahlias. It was precise to the extent that the stalk of each bloom had been cut to a prescribed length at exactly the same slanted angle, the leaves that would normally have been immersed in water had been carefully removed so as not to damage the stems, and those beyond the waterline had been culled so that what remained became a part of the carefully created formal arrangement.
Dahlias are by nature colourful and exuberant flowers, more jazz than ballet, and while the display was beautiful, the white and yellow blooms seemed to have been severely reprimanded and made to behave themselves.
‘I will bring tea,’ the mama-san said, scurrying away.
Anna sat alone and afraid, aware of the chance she was taking, knowing she was intruding, an uninvited guest in the home of a man who could with a snap of his fingers condemn her to death or, perhaps worse, hand her over to be tortured by the kempeitai. In her mind she saw the blood-splashed jackboots again. She was unaccustomed to wearing make-up, but when discarding possessions as they left the Witvogel she had kept a single tube of lipstick, the lightest shade among the many colours her late stepmother had possessed. Anna’s thickly lashed violet eyes needed no mascara and her skin was flawless. She had worn the lipstick in an attempt to look more grown-up but now, in the process of containing her anxiety, she repeatedly ran her tongue over her lips and unbeknown to her, no trace of applied colour remained. Her attempt at worldly sophistication had been eliminated.
The tea arrived. ‘It is Dutch tea,’ the mama-san announced proudly. ‘There was some left. We Japanese, we drink only green tea.’
‘Thank you, Mother,’ Anna said, not telling her that she would have much preferred the other. The locally born Japanese woman poured Anna’s tea and Anna commented, ‘The flowers are beautiful. I love dahlias, so many colours, they always look as though they’re dressed and going off to a dance.’
‘I cut two pink ones yesterday and put them in the vase and the colonel-san was very angry. He threw out the pink. “Do not touch the arrangement again!” he shouted.’ The housekeeper looked serious. ‘Japanese women who do not grow up in Japan cannot know these things. I must be careful and obedient and know my place. It is good for me to learn from the honourable Konoe-san, who is from a noble family and very wise.’ She pointed at the vase. ‘Every morning he removes the flowers and places them in a row with a number beside them, here on this table, then I must wash and polish the vase and bring him a jug of clean water. Then he will arrange them again, always the same as the last time, even the leaves the same,’ she said, obviously awed and deeply respectful of the precise discipline involved.
‘You do not find this strange?’ Anna asked, confused and trying in her mind to decide what kind of man could become so obsessed with a single vase of flowers.
‘Oh, no! It is culture. It is Japanese. It is the power of perfection! I must learn and respect this honourable vase of flowers.’ At that moment the short stab of a car horn sounded. The Japanese woman visibly drew to attention. A frightened look crossed her face and then settled into one of concern. ‘He has come. I must go to the door!’ She turned and half-ran to the back door, then stopped. ‘Ahee! Your name, Miss?’
‘Anna. Anna Van Heerden.’
‘Anna,’ the woman said, repeating, ‘Anna, Anna.’
Anna had not introduced herself, waiting in the conventional Javanese way to have the older person make the first introduction and so signalling that they wished to know you. The locally born Japanese woman would have known this convention and, unsure of her master’s reception of the beautiful young woman, would have refrained from introducing herself other than to mention that she was the wife of the mayor. This apparent lack of good manners was seemingly intentional, lest her familiarity with Anna cause her master, the colonel, displeasure.
Anna had rehearsed in her mind how she would manage the introduction to the Japanese colonel. She would rise from her chair unhurriedly and smile in her most engaging manner, as any politely brought-up young girl would do if they found themselves suddenly in the presence of an older stranger. Keep calm. Keep calm, she constantly repeated to herself. But suddenly he was there, a tall, good-looking Japanese man in shiny jackboots and an immaculate uniform, moving with a pronounced limp. Anna jumped to her feet, her hands clasped behind her back in the manner of an errant schoolgirl suddenly caught out. ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed.
It was only at that moment that it occurred to her that they had no means of communicating. He undoubtedly spoke no Javanese, was unlikely to be conversant in Dutch, and she knew almost no Japanese. The mama-san would need to translate, which was precisely what Anna did not wish to happen, but then again, she would be a better option than her husband, the mayor. That is, of course, if wordlessly he didn’t have her arrested and handed to the kempeitai.
Colonel Konoe smiled and motioned for her to resume her seat. ‘Anna, do you speak English, French or German?’ he asked in almost flawless English.
Anna backed into her chair, her legs unexpectedly meeting the cushioned seat so that she sat down with an undignified thump. ‘English, sir — and French a little, but only school French, no German,’ she said, recovering.
The Japanese officer seemed pleased. ‘English. Good. We shall speak to each other in English. I am Konoe Akira.’ He came to attention and bowed his head slightly, no more than a formal jerk, followed by a sharp grunt, ‘Ho!’ He’d placed his surname before his particular name in the Japanese way.
‘Anna Van Heerden. How do you do, sir?’
The Japanese colonel did not reply to her greeting but proceeded to seat himself opposite her, his body slightly twisted, awkward as he adjusted his bad leg. Finally settled, he leaned back against the large chair. He
reached into the brass-buttoned breast pocket of his uniform and produced a slim silver cigarette case; withdrawing a cigarette he closed the case and tapped the end of the cigarette against the lid. He turned his head towards the door. ‘Mama-san!’ he called and then added something in Japanese.
Moments later the housekeeper appeared with a silver cigarette lighter and a glass ashtray. With her hands shaking slightly, she lit the colonel’s cigarette, then placed the ashtray in front of him. Anna noted that this was not a man accustomed to lighting his own cigarette, or perhaps not in the company of someone else. She wondered which of the two options it was, thinking there was a difference. The ashtray, she observed, was beautiful, and moulded into the bottom was a butterfly. Later she would tell me that this singular detail almost brought her undone. She also admitted it was at that moment she realised that so much had happened since we’d said a tearful farewell on the Witvogel that she wondered if I could possibly love the person she had become. She would later discover that the ashtray was French and signed by an artist named Lalique.
Colonel Konoe threw his head back and exhaled the cigarette smoke toward the verandah ceiling. ‘Van Heerden? You are Dutch?’ he asked at last.
‘Half, sir. Mijn father is Dutch and my mother, she is dead, was Javanese.’
He frowned. ‘Mixed colour? I do not approve of mixing races, the result is always inferior.’ He announced this calmly as though it was a commonly known and proven fact and smiled as if this was a perfectly normal thing to say. ‘But in your case I will make an exception. Ah, your eyes,’ he said admiringly.
Anna did not know how she should reply — angrily to the insult or smiling at the compliment — and so she remained silent.
He pointed to the vase of flowers. ‘Purity of selection is like those dahlias, one perfect colour.’
‘But there are two colours, sir.’
‘One!’ he said sharply. ‘Yellow. White is not a colour. It is simply there to highlight the perfection of the yellow.’
The Persimmon Tree Page 39