House of Glass

by Pramoedya Ananta Toer

  My heart was no longer so tormented. I had found some sort of peace. However, there was no letup in my work. There was more and more to do every day and I still had no assistant.

  As 1914 neared its end, there were some developments. Some former members of the Indische Partij formed a new party, called Insulinde. But it was pallid, insufficiently infused with blood. It had no paper, no mouth. It had no initiative, it had no will and had no hands. It had no factory of ideas, so it grew like a tree trunk without foliage. Even so, it was another challenge to the Eurasians, who opposed it from the very beginning. Most of the Eurasians had an excessive lust for serving the government, often giving the government itself headaches.

  And there was something else. Every town was hit by organization fever. It was almost impossible to count all the new organizations, let alone list them, because they did not seek legal status. They did not develop out of real need; it was just a kind of fever that people contracted—at least, that’s the conclusion I rather hurriedly came to.

  But what attracted greater public attention was the formation of the Indies Social Democratic Association. Its founders were political exiles from a party split in the Netherlands—Engineer Baars and Sneevliet. Following European tradition, they were quite ready to pronounce their opinions wherever and to whomever. The two of them moved from place to place every day, talking, and talking, and talking, as if they were sure they could conquer every ear in the Indies. . . .

  One day my new boss summoned me to his room. He handed over a file in a sealed envelope. Perhaps it shouldn’t really be called a file. It seemed quite a small and thin package, perhaps just twenty or thirty pages.

  “War in Europe, Meneer,” said my new boss. “Here everything is calm.”

  I didn’t know what he was getting at, and I had no desire to ask. He never spoke in any language except Dutch.

  “I think it would be calm in the United States too, just like here in the Indies.”

  It was beyond me what he was getting at. Several times now, he had tried to get people involved in a discussion about the United States. And what was there that an educated person, schooled in Europe, could say about America? America certainly attracted those who felt confined in their own country. It was criminals and those who were half-starved and never satisfied with their life who fled to America.

  “Would you like to read a book about America?” he asked.

  “It’s something I’d like to do, Meneer, but I have so much work.”

  “But there is no deadline for your work, is there?”

  Well, this was different from Monsieur R—. My new boss didn’t want to give me any new work at all. On the contrary, he was suggesting that I read about America. Then what meaning did I have here in this office? Was this a hint that I was about to be dismissed?

  “Yes, there are things that have to be finished, Meneer.”

  “Of course, but why always in a hurry? There is a storm raging across Europe. Why do we need to whip up storms here too? Let’s just take it easy. Here”—handing a book to me—“perhaps you will enjoy this.”

  It was a book about the flora and fauna of America, and about the lives of those Indian tribes that had not yet died out.

  “I look forward to reading it.”

  He smiled, very pleased, and I returned to my office.

  There was a note from my boss on the envelope he had given me, saying that I should study the papers inside. God! They were Raden Mas Minke’s papers. Who gave the orders to rob him this time? It was not me. Yes, my God, this was not my will. I put them back in their envelope. I realized as I did so that my hands were shaking. This man, exiled and helpless, was still being persecuted. He had the right to write whatever he wished, memoirs, perhaps a confession. He had that right. Only the most cursed of men act so barbarically against him. I say he has the right! Yes, he has!

  My two hands rose up by themselves, trying to hold together my head, which was suddenly throbbing again. But no. Someone entered my office, old, skinny, wrinkled; the whole of his head of hair was white, he carried a cane, and wore very, very simple European clothes, but no shoes, just simple slippers. He came closer toward me. He didn’t speak.

  “Meneer Minke!” I muttered. “Already so old?”

  Oh! This was another damned vision. My nerves were going again. I must sit down. I pressed the button underneath my desk. This electrical device had been installed only a week ago. When the attendant came I ordered a bottle of whiskey and a glass.

  Who was it who had the heart to do this? I wrote out a note and took it to my boss. By the time I got back, the attendant was standing there waiting. He followed me in and put the whiskey and glass on the desk. By the time I had gulped down four glasses, I knew that the note would by now have left my boss’s hands. By the time I had downed ten glasses, messages would be traveling along copper wires borne by electric current in who knows what directions.

  I started flicking through my boss’s book. What? Colored prints! Was something wrong with my eyes or were these pictures actually colored? I pressed the button. The attendant came back again. I held out the book for him to see, and asked: “Have you ever seen printed color pictures?” He glanced over the open book before him. He looked at me, he looked again at the pictures.

  “This is the first time, Meneer.” So it was true they were colored. I wasn’t seeing things this time. I gave him a five cent tip and he left in very good mood.

  I drank and drank again. By the time the bottle was empty, an answer would be arriving for me. I read one page, two pages. There was nothing interesting there. What did it all mean, flora, fauna, and Indian tribes? America! If I had to read about America, I would want something else, not this stuff.

  My boss came in, carrying a piece of paper.

  “Ah, you have begun reading my book. That’s good. There is no need to be so serious all the time, Meneer.” He smiled openly as if he were not my superior in this system of colonial power but a friend whom I was meeting on a street corner in Leidishe Square, or a new acquaintance I had made only because we had happened to sit on the same bench in Vondel Park.

  “I don’t know what this cable means. You will probably understand. Actually, I don’t think I want to know either. But I do know that the clerks and other staff around the place, even though they might not understand what it’s all about, if they hear something or find out something, they like to sell the information to the press. Did you know that?”

  I was reminded of how Raden Mas Minke wrote in one of his books about the Patih of Meester Cornelius’s nephew being caught reading papers in the Algemeene Secretariat. But I had not realized until now that it was our own staff that liked to sell information.

  “There will be no more storms come from this office,” he continued. “I don’t want any information from here going onto the market now. The future of the Netherlands itself is in the balance.”

  He liked to shoot off his mouth. Who else did he talk to like this? Or was it just to me?

  “Our job, Meneer Pangemanann, is to make the Indies as calm and quiet as possible, as if there were nothing happening in the world at all. We have already limited the news here about the war. I know there are all these groups forming out there. You call it ‘an organization fever’ in your reports. But none of this is a danger to us. Let them yap off as much as they like. As long as they have no guns, nothing will ever happen.”

  It sounded more and more as if I would turn out to be right about nearing the end of my assignment here.

  “If you keep taking Sneevliet’s and Baars’s speeches seriously, you will never sleep. Let them be. A thousand people like them will never change the situation. If we just ignore them, they will end up talking only to themselves. They will never be heroes, just snake oil salesmen.”

  And would I get any increase in pension from the Algemeene Secretariat when I was retired from this job? And I still had not had my European leave. Perhaps when the war was over?

  “We must
keep a more vigilant watch over our clerks and attendants. Ever since the first governor-general, Peter Both, this office has always been the source of rumors and a marketplace for information.”

  In these uncertain times it looked as though the government’s policy was to look inward to its own workings.

  “Our office will no longer be the source of information for the stock market, press, or other speculation, and no more rumors either. Our situation here in the Indies is going to become more difficult as all our mineral products pile up. Europe’s factories don’t need our goods now. The only country whose factories keep producing is America, Meneer. And it doesn’t need our goods either.” He was quite a good orator. “We need new policies to deal with this decline in our markets. Our markets in Rotterdam and Amsterdam are going to remain quiet for the time being.”

  He laughed, as if he could read my mind. “Throughout its history, Europe has always waged war against itself, and that is how it has been able to rejuvenate itself. That’s why it is superior to the other continents. Except America, of course. America has its own way. It won’t copy the European countries’ fighting among themselves. Once it makes a mistake, it never repeats it. That is America, Meneer. You can see for yourself with that book. The stones, the butterflies, rivers, everything is put down on paper in color for everyone to see. For everyone to see, Meneer. Do you hear me?”

  Satisfied with his speech, he left me to my own devices again. He did not even mention the empty whiskey bottle on my desk.

  Yes, what’s the use of rushing about like this when even Her Majesty’s and the Netherlands’ future was uncertain? I took out Raden Mas Minke’s manuscripts from my cabinet and put them in my briefcase. I would study all these as a fellow human being. No, Meneer Minke, I am no longer your guard dog. Once again I will become your admirer, your student, whose heart overflows with respect for you.

  I took the new papers that came in today as well. And . . . farewell to this work of destruction! Good-bye to being a guard dog! I will go back to being the old Pangemanann. No more disasters would befall people because my fingers had scratched something on paper about their destiny. . . .

  Quite unusually I received a visit that afternoon from some Menadonese. I really enjoyed that afternoon. I decided I would not start on Minke’s manuscripts. I was unacquainted with six of my guests. I only knew my nephew, Pangemanann without a double n.

  This time my wife sat with us, and my two children, Mark and Dede, also. The conversation was in Dutch, with the occasional Menadonese word thrown in here and there. Then came the real purpose of the visit. It was none other than my own nephew who was their spokesman.

  With great enthusiasm and in quite adequate Dutch, he explained that the purpose of their visit was so that I, one of the most prominent Menadonese, would pay some small attention to what was happening in the lives of the Menadonese people in general. Would, yes, would the Menadonese only ever be soldiers and policemen until the end of time?

  From the very beginning, I was being put in a difficult situation. From different things he was saying and at different moments, it was not difficult to see where all this was leading.

  “Every student strives to become a government servant. Then when they get a job they forget forever that they are still Menadonese. Without the land and people of Menado there would be no Menadonese individuals, no Menadonese soldiers or police. We are not saying that to be a Menadonese is better than being from another people. What is there that we can boast about anyway? What really is there to be so proud about in there being a Pangemanann who has become a police commissioner and a Roemengan who has become a doctor or a Pangkey who has become a lawyer?”

  He was in full flight now and I was feeling more and more ashamed.

  Suddenly he changed to speaking in Malay. “Why are we speaking in Dutch? Madame understands Malay, Uncle too, and the children.”

  “Please,” I said. “Madame will not object.”

  “We all know, Uncle, Madame,” and he nodded to my wife, “that things are changing. Every day there are more changes. The different peoples of the Indies are starting to organize so as to advance themselves. The Javanese have the Boedi Oetomo, which has already set up many schools. And the government itself has been willing to give some of them subsidies. This year the Sundanese have set up the Pagoeyoeban Pasoenden. The Madurese have formed the Sarekat Madura. The Moslems have the Sarekat Islam. Even among smaller circles, among the nobles of Solo, they have set up the Blood of the Mangkunegaran. We know that you understand all this better than anyone, Uncle. So then, will we just stand by silently, as if nothing is happening, as if there is nothing else in our world except a soldier’s or policeman’s uniform? We are all agreed that we too should do as these others have done and start to work for the advancement of the Menadonese people.”

  “Yes, that’s a very good idea,” I said hypocritically.

  “That is what we all hoped to hear. If you agree, Uncle, then everyone else will surely join us too.”

  I was reminded of the founding of the original Sarekat Priyayi.

  “It’s not that we want our people to set this up just because of Uncle or Dr. Roemengan or lawyer Pangkey. No, we don’t want members who are just joining in for the sake of it. What’s the use of that? We want to draw in those who truly feel there is a need and who want to work for the organization.”

  “That is probably the best way. But even members who don’t really need the organization can at least tell other people about it,” I interpolated.

  It was then that I realized how little I knew about running an organization. This young man who sat before me seemed to have such knowledge, perhaps it was even a science, which he had obtained outside school and outside his employment with the government. I began to admire him. I let him keep on talking.

  He continued to speak. When you have to work among many peoples with different interests and concerns, then it is important to be good at talking to people. That he was able to get his friends to come here with him was already a sign of organizational ability.

  “Uncle, now that Uncle has agreed, we will circulate our invitations very broadly. And if we succeed, what do you think we should call our organization?”

  A name? What was the best name? I put my brain to work. How difficult it was to find a name. Ah, why not copy what others have already done.

  “Sarekat Menado.”

  “That’s what I thought you’d say,” he said. “But we are not Moslems. I don’t think we should use an Arab word like sarekat. And menado somehow doesn’t feel right. Wouldn’t it be better if we used minahasa?”

  God! I had never thought about anything as detailed as that. So what meaning did I have for the Menadonese people, even though they were proud that I had reached such a high position in the police? It was shameful. And my work was in fact to manipulate these Native organizations. Not so that they would develop, but so that they would be destroyed. I had to make sure that they did not travel down the road that they chose, but the one that I chose for them. And now if an organization of my own people were to be set up, would I now have to do the same to them? Shameful.

  “What about if we call it Rukun Minahasa? Do you agree with that, Uncle?” he asked straight to the point, unhesitatingly, and it seemed that this was what he planned to suggest all along.

  “Excellent. Rukun Minahasa,” I answered spontaneously. “That has much more Native Menado character.”

  As soon as I spoke they all stared at me.

  “I didn’t mean that as an insult. The word Native is not an insult,” I said quickly. “You all reject the word sarekat because it is Arabic. As far as I know rukun is not a foreign word but a general Native word throughout the Indies. Isn’t it because you wanted to maintain your cultural integrity that you have decided not to use Dutch or other foreign words?”

  And now it was I who opened my mouth! And I explained to them about the anti-cosmopolitan movement that was growing in Europe, outside England, Ge
rmany, and France, among peoples who were sick of the influence of these three countries, who felt that their national integrity had been swallowed up by the influence of these three. This movement argued that there should be more attention paid to national development, even down to the question of language. If a nation continued to live in a cosmopolitan manner because of foreign domination, as in the Indies, then its language would become cosmopolitan too; it would fall into chaos, as had happened to English at one time. The rise of national consciousness in England had also required them to eventually put their language in order.

  “So,” I repeated, “to give priority to Nativeness in finding a name means showing our national character. I agree with Rukun Minahasa.”

  And during the course of my work, I had learned how to identify certain characteristics of Native organizations by the names they used. For example, those who used their mother tongue were making a statement that they did not need to communicate with the organizations of peoples other than their own. While those who used Malay were opening their doors to relations with all the organizations of the peoples of the Indies.

  But I could see from the look in their eyes that they had not really understood what I had told them. These kinds of issues were still beyond the grasp of most of the educated Natives. I began to regret having talked about cosmopolitanism and the national question. So I did not continue. They might misunderstand.

  “I support the idea of this organization and its name,” I said, ending my speech. “Anyway, I am already old now. The future belongs to you. It is up to you to make use of it and determine what happens now. Old people like me will be of no use then, and those times will not belong to us anymore. It is you who have the right to determine what happens from now on.”

  “And, of course, you will not object to being one of our patrons, Uncle?”

  A patron? I screamed in my soul. Me? A hunter and destroyer of organizations? These children do not understand how things really are.

  “I will have to think about that first. An old person like me has to be more careful. I have to be very clear about what constraints there are upon me as a government official.”