House of Glass

by Pramoedya Ananta Toer

  This briefing from the governor would be useful when I interviewed Mas Tjokro.

  I called upon His Excellency the governor the next morning in the gubernatorial office as an official act of courtesy. He was just as polite and relaxed there as he had been the evening before at his residence. He introduced me to the various senior officials who worked for him. Then he took me to the library.

  I took this opportunity to ask him to obtain for my use over the next few days copies of the Dutch and Malay magazines that had been publishing the articles by the person using the name Siti Soendari.

  The secretary who was given this assignment seemed quite annoyed at being given this extra work.

  Back at the hotel I read over the last month’s magazine, looking especially for anything signed Siti Soendari. Among this huge pile of paper, I only found four articles, in Dutch and Malay. From these writings, those in both Dutch and Malay, it was obvious she was an educated and well-brought-up woman. This was clear from the way she wrote, the expressions she used, and the kinds of comparisons and examples she put forward in her arguments. Her Malay was school Malay. It was quite likely that she had read the writings of Kartini, especially her letters in the first part of De Zonnige Toekomst, where every new line guided the reader to ideas and arguments, whose wider meanings were then revealed. If it was true she was a woman, was she old or still a young maiden? And her writings were full of so much wisdom, in some ways the opposite of Marco’s writings.

  She could explain her thoughts very clearly and did not indulge in excessive attacks. The examples she used, though somewhat limited, were quite learned. She wrote with great enthusiasm but was able to keep it under control, unlike Marco and Wardi, whose writings were marked with explosions of emotion. She obviously had great reserves of strength. Like Raden Mas Minke, her spirit was not subject to instability and turmoil. It was my assessment that she had the outlook of a cultured aristocrat. Would I be correct or not? I would find out later.

  Her articles were quite different from those of other Natives, and especially Javanese, in that they did not exhibit any sign of her having any neuroses. So from this I concluded that she had no imperfection in either body or spirit. She was probably quite pretty and lissome.

  She had been cradled in her parents’ love since she was small and in an environment that had not given her any kind of strange mental problem.

  If it was true that she was a woman, then she was different from the girl from Jepara, who seemed to need people’s attention more and more as she grew older. This woman was not seeking people’s attention for herself; rather she wanted people to pay attention to the reality around them and their own lives, and to learn from what they saw. She was not like Nyai Ontosoroh, as Minke described her in his writings, hardheaded, stubborn, and never at peace. Siti Soendari had a gentle soul and it was her gentleness that was the source of her strength. And one thing was for certain—she was worth ten governors’ wives.

  You could also tell from her writings that she was pure of heart and was somebody who knew what she wanted. And from within that purity, there was one thing that glowed brightly—her hatred of colonialism.

  At first it was only her hatred for colonialism that attracted me. But slowly, this writer, who used the name Siti Soendari, emerged before my mind’s eye as the ideal woman, brought into the world for no other reason than to make humankind’s life more beautiful. She was the flower that all men dreamed of. She was a goddess compared to the like of Rientje de Roo. The only thing still not clear was whether she had the toughness of spirit, the strength, to withstand the kind of trials that Sanikem had withstood.

  The interview with Mas Tjokro did not come off. When I arrived at his house—without an appointment, of course—he was out of town in his new car, heading somewhere southward. I was told that he had gone to Pacitan, a region famous for its Islamic fanaticism, where no church had ever been built.

  A dialogue with a middle-level Sarekat member produced the following results.

  “Do you know Mas Tjokro?”

  “Only his name.”

  “Does Mas Tjokro often go on tours?”

  “Often, Meneer. That is why he bought the car.”

  “Where did he get the money to buy the car?”

  “The Sarekat will provide everything that its top leaders need, Meneer.”

  “You’re exaggerating, aren’t you?”

  He didn’t seem to be very happy with that question. He was a fanatical supporter of Mas Tjokro.

  “Where does he visit most?”

  “Jombang, Tulungagung, the East Java coastal towns.”

  “Why does he often visit some places and not others?”

  “He goes most often to those towns where there is a Moslem boarding school—a pesantren.”

  “So, all the pious Moslems are becoming members of the Sarekat?”

  “No, Meneer, it’s actually the other way around. Most santri do not join. They believe only in their own kyai, rather than in any outsider. And the kyais have faith only in their own authority and wisdom and do not like to bow down to somebody else’s.”

  “So why does he visit the pesantren towns so often?”

  “I’m sorry, but I am not really sure. They say he is often challenged to debate religious matters with the experts that the kyais put forward. He needs to prove his supremacy in these matters.”

  “So it is just to defend his status?”

  “Yes. There are quite a few people who don’t approve of him doing this, because it has nothing to do with the organization’s goals. There are even those who say that he is concerned only with his personal prestige. But, then, the Sarekat uses ‘Islam’ in its name, so every Moslem has the right to discuss these matters. I don’t know for sure. Perhaps that is how he thinks too.”

  “Is that is what he is doing in Pacitan too?”

  He gave a rather embarrassed smile. And I didn’t understand why. It seemed there was something tickling his conscience. It was already widely recognized that Mas Tjokro was following in the footsteps of his predecessor, Raden Mas Minke, in a number of areas—the way he spoke and dressed, in developing and defending his popularity, in always putting forward grand ideas. And the last and most obvious thing was that they both got on splendidly with the ladies. Perhaps the embarrassed smile of this Sarekat member pointed to this tendency on the part of his leader. And this was something not at all out of the ordinary in the life of a Native male, given that women were so dependent on their husbands, on their husbands’ income, not to mention the feudal atmosphere in general.

  Then I received an express telegram from Semarang replying to my inquiries.

  It was thought that this new figure who had emerged and was using the name Siti Soendari was a recent graduate of the Semarang HBS. Ever since she entered the HBS several years before, she had exhibited a talent and liking for writing. One of the HBS teachers from Semarang had recognized her former student’s style in a Dutch-language article she had read. Her style as a student and now as a free woman in the community had not changed in its essentials. With several years’ experience in society now, she wrote more confidently and had much more to say. If it was true that Siti Soendari was a former student of the Semarang HBS, then it would be easy to find out more about her.

  The next letter explained that a fuller dossier would take another week to get together and that it would be sent straight to the Algemeene Secretariat in Buitenzorg.

  From Surabaya I went to Malang to see for myself the preparations being made for the coming visit by His Excellency the governor-general, who was to officially declare the town a rest and recreation center for the Netherlands Indies navy. While in that town I received another telegram informing me that Mas Tjokro was still in Pacitan and that he had opened a tablig, a religious consultation. It seemed he would be staying there for quite a while.

  There was one incident that embellished my time there in Malang. I had actually expected something of this sort in Surabaya, so
I wasn’t surprised when it happened. Such an incident was bound to occur now that I no longer wore my police uniform, displaying my last rank.

  As I approached the billiard table, a Eurasian came up and grabbed the billiard cue out of my hand.

  “Who gave you permission to come in here?” he snarled.

  My eyes quickly slid down to my white clothes and shiny brown shoes with their neatly tied knots.

  The chief of the Malang police, Meneer Roedentaal, who had brought me to this place, was talking to somebody in a marine’s uniform.

  The Indo’s words truly hurt me, even though I had often used the same words against others.

  “The chief of the Malang police, Meneer Roedentaal,” I answered in Dutch.

  “I don’t care if it was an angel from heaven—nobody has the right to bring either Natives or dogs in here!” he hissed angrily in Malay.

  I am willing to bet that my Malay and Dutch were both better than his. But such things meant nothing in a situation like this. I was indeed just an Inlander, a Pure Menadonese, even though we had the same status under Netherlands Indies law.

  “Thank you, Meneer,” I said in Dutch. “If only you understood a little about politeness . . .”

  The Indo lost his temper and was about to hit out at me with the billiard cue. It was then that Meneer Roedentaal intervened: “Meneer Strooman, I don’t think this is the way to behave at all. Meneer Pangemanann is a retired police commissioner, a high official at the Algemeene Secretariat, and is in Malang on special assignment for his Excellency the governor-general.”

  “Meneer Commander,” answered Strooman, “does that make him no longer an Inlander? And does that mean that as a dues-paying member of this club I can no longer insist that all the rules be adhered to?”

  “You are not totally wrong,” said Roedentaal. “If the problem is one of being an Inlander, then you as an Indo are half Inlander yourself. It is true though that you are a dues-paying member. But so am I and I have no Inlander blood in me. Meneer can be more polite. It was I who brought Meneer Pangemanann here. And is there something wrong in a police commander bringing a high government official to the club?”

  This was not the first time I had experienced such an incident. That is the reason why I did not like staying at European hotels if I was not wearing my uniform. And now I had been trapped here in this club. If I surrendered to my emotions, there would surely be a disturbance. Colonials are the same everywhere. Racial hatred is their guide in life. And I had the same attitude too toward anyone who was not Menadonese or European.

  I had to accept defeat, and perhaps indeed I was defeated. I left the club, and Roedentaal followed me and never stopped mumbling his regrets. As we walked out of the club’s garden he said that a high official of the Algemeene Secretariat should not have to put up with such an incident. He promised he would not let it pass.

  From Malang I continued my journey to Madiun, traveling in the resident’s car. Madiun was developing into a center of cottage industry. The Sarekat membership here was always on the increase. It never dropped.

  I didn’t stay in a hotel. The bupati, an educated man who spoke several modern languages, put me up in his bungalow outside the town. It was here that I held a meeting with the bupati and the resident. They both gave me their official assurances that all the preparations for the governor-general’s visit were proceeding smoothly. The whole town of Madiun in all its glory was ready to welcome him.

  I was given both written and verbal reports about the activities of the various new organizations in the town.

  The inhabitants of Madiun were in the grip of organization fever. Besides the very big branch of the Sarekat itself, there were many other local organizations. There was a Coachmen’s Sarekat, a Drivers’ Sarekat, a Servants and Waiters’ Sarekat, a Station Coolies’ Sarekat, and another score or so of others. All of them used the name sarekat and no longer syarikat, the name Raden Mas Minke left behind as part of his legacy. It looked as if this term would become a permanent part of the world of organization in the Indies. But the name was not so important. What was important was the question of why was there such feverish organizational activity in Madiun.

  I asked at that meeting that telegrams be sent to Malang, Surabaya, and Semarang requesting figures about these towns’ geographical area, population, and the number of Native organizations, as well as their membership figures.

  “There is an organizing epidemic here,” I said.

  “As you can see for yourself,” answered Meneer Resident.

  “Who is behind all this? It’s obviously not all happening by itself,” I said.

  Neither the resident nor the bupati could answer. I left the room to give them a chance to overcome their confusion and consult without my presence. When I entered my room, I stopped in my tracks, nailed to the floor. Over in the corner, on a grass mat, sat three women. On seeing me enter the room, they knelt down before me and made their obeisance.

  This was one of the customs of Native officials that had also ruined the reputation of the Bupati of Rembang.

  I closed the door and walked across to them. Although they ceased with their obeisance, they kept their heads bowed.

  Every government official who had ever been on an inspection tour knew exactly what this meant. So one by one I lifted up their chins. One of them was a European Indo. Her Native dress could not disguise her bloodline. They all seemed about the same age.

  “Who sent you here?” I asked in Malay.

  “Ndoro Wedana,” one of them answered.

  She no doubt meant one of the bupati’s subordinates.

  “Who was sent here by Tuan Resident?”

  “I, Ndoro,” the Eurasian one replied in Javanese.

  One of them hurriedly began to polish my shoes with her selendang. And the aroma of flowers and hair oil wafted up from their heads. I was not used to all these kinds of aromas. The smells were heavy, narcotic, and binding. And the three women were all attractive, young and full-bodied. I left the room again without saying any more to them.

  The resident and the bupati both studied my face for any changes in its appearance. It didn’t look as though they were in the middle of deliberating or had just finished chatting. It seemed they had been relying on the influence of the women in that room.

  “In fact, we haven’t given you all the background to the whole issue of who is behind all this activity. We’re not really sure that we should tell you the rest,” said the bupati.

  “And why aren’t you sure?” I asked.

  “Not all that has been reported can be believed. Some of it is like a fairy tale.”

  “Like a fairy tale!” I cried drily.

  “Yes, Meneer. I still don’t believe the reports we have been getting,” the resident followed on. “And I am sure you won’t believe them either.”

  “Tell me, then, so that we can think it all over carefully.”

  “It shouldn’t be taken seriously yet, but the fairy story is that it is all being propelled along by a woman.”

  Soendari! That was my guess. Siti Soendari. There was only one woman who was hurtling brilliantly through the Indies universe at the moment. Just one person—Siti Soendari. Now I will find out who you are, Noni!

  “A woman!” I repeated. “She is a young woman, no doubt.”

  “No husband yet.”

  And I saw before me a beautiful girl, educated, clever, interesting, supple and intelligent, refined and alluring. There was an extraordinary inner beauty reflected in her writings. Perhaps this was how beautiful her face would be. And if it was true that she was pretty, she would never, of course, have been successfully tempted with flattery and seduction. If it was true that she was pretty, then there could be no doubt that she would have a very strong personality.

  “Beautiful, of course,” I suggested.

  “That is what has been reported. Whenever she speaks with officials, they never hear what she is saying. They are only impressed with her beauty and charm,
her smile, her gleaming teeth, the supple movements of her body, her red lips which are always moist.”

  And it was Meneer Bupati who spoke those words.

  Was it possible that she was using all these as weapons to move her people? I thought.

  It was at that moment that the Madiun chief of police arrived on his Harley-Davidson. He was a European Pure-Blood and his face was pinkish-red because of the heat. His brown bamboo hat looked very old. He saluted Meneer Resident, nodded to Meneer Bupati and to me.

  The resident ordered him to sit down and tell us all he knew about Siti Soendari.

  He took a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his face, and politely blew his nose. He said in Dutch: “As for the woman called Siti Soendari, I myself have seen her.”

  “You haven’t mentioned that in your reports.”

  “The last report was submitted a week ago, Meneer Resident,” he struck back. “Yes, I have seen her, but even then I didn’t believe what I saw. She is too young. It’s such a waste for one so young and pretty to use this beautiful period of her life for this kind of work. She should be the raden ayu of a bupati in one of the very rich districts.”

  “You haven’t made a mistake with her name?” I asked.

  “As far as I know, Siti Soendari is her name.”

  I realized at once that these officials from Madiun did not follow the Indies newspapers and magazines. They needed a reprimand.

  “The first time I saw her she was wearing an unpleated batik kain. Her face is like that of a betel leaf, as the Natives say. She had beautiful golden skin, thin but full lips. Anyone watching her speak would be totally captivated by her lips.”

  “That’s not what I want to know,” I reprimanded him.

  Meneer Resident laughed happily. Meneer Bupati frowned for some reason or other.