House of Glass

by Pramoedya Ananta Toer

  And all of this had to be dealt with by Governor-General Van Limburg Stirum. And we were the ones who would have to come up with the schemes and plans of what had to be done.

  He entered the palace.

  In East and Central Java people were shouting for wage rises while refusing to work, or “staking” as the Dutch say. Pawnshop employees in several places refused to go into the shops and stayed outside joining the crowds who wanted to pawn something. Then plantation laborers joined in.

  A businessman from one of the big European companies lost his temper and called the workers “pigs”: “You push them, you pull them, they won’t move, they just ‘mogok’—stop work.” Since then the terms “refused to work” and “staking” were replaced by “mogok” as the word everyone used for “strike.”

  Of all the areas of Native activity, it was journalism that was considered to be the most important. Of course, by journalism I don’t mean European-style journalism, but I mean writing in public with your name right up front, either your real name, pen name, or initials. This new phenomenon certainly originated with Raden Mas Minke. He once told one of his friends that a person can be as clever as all the world but as long as he can’t put pen to paper he will disappear into society and from history. According to the girl from Jepara, to write is to do work that is eternal. And the Indies style of journalism was a natural mixture of the Natives’ need for leadership and eternity.

  New public figures were not looked upon seriously if their words could not be read on paper. The same applied to the Natives in the Netherlands. Wardi did not write, but Sostrokartono launched himself into the Dutch journalistic ferment. Even though he used a pen name, people knew who he was. Then Djojokartono arrived and stated in an interview that he would follow the example of Sostrokartono, who, by the way, came from Jepara. Djojopranoto himself, a German citizen, had left Germany after finishing his military service, escaped, and now resided in the Netherlands.

  There is something interesting about this Djojopranoto. Like me, he too was the adopted son of an apothecary, but a German. And just like Raden Mas Minke, he was a brilliant student at the Batavia Medical School. His writings were full of youthful spirit, both in German and in Dutch. He wrote quite differently from Sostrokartono, whose pieces were calm and convincing.

  In Java Sostrokardono seemed to be copying Sostrokartono’s style. Every sentence groped for substance and poise.

  Marco did not publish anything at all in the Netherlands. What could he have published with his poor Dutch and limited knowledge? The one I was most sad about was, of course, Siti Soendari. She too didn’t write. I don’t know whether she continued her studies there or not. If she used her time there to study and then returned to the Indies later, she would become a writer with real substance and ability.

  Now that they weren’t writing, Marco and Siti Soendari disappeared off the chessboard. But I, Pangemanann with two n’s, still kept note of what they were doing.

  And in Java too the names of those two people were slowly being forgotten. Goenawan and Sostrokardono seemed to be emerging as the new centers. Soerjopranoto was the motor, always seeking new ways to bankrupt the European companies and cause more losses to the national revenues.

  During the first days of Governor-General Van Limburg Stirum’s administration, he didn’t seem to want to know about any of this. The staff at the Algemeene Secretariat were very worried and tense. There was more and more turmoil outside the palace. The pro-government organizations seemed to be unable to go on the offensive. We all suspected that the new governor-general was uninterested in what was happening. And if that was the case, then perhaps the Secretariat itself needed to take more initiatives of its own.

  A week had gone by and the governor-general had not met anybody. From his servants, we heard that he and his wife were busy arranging their furniture. A whole week! Meanwhile the plantation administrators and the European businesses were all more and more worried. They were all hoping for a new and firm policy, one that meant harsh measures to stop these developments.

  It was nine days after His Excellency’s arrival that my director was summoned. A little while later, the governor-general, accompanied by his adjutants, came to our offices. He inspected them all. He did not seem at all menacing. He smiled a lot, and didn’t speak much. His eyes shone with a certain calmness, but his somewhat bald head was often nodding, though never shaking.

  Two hours after he left our office, the word started to spread—Her Majesty’s government in the Netherlands was very concerned with developments in the Indies and in Java in particular. The policy he brought with him was to continue with the recent new initiatives in the Indies as well as Europe. The increasing aggressiveness of the Native organizations must not be tackled head-on. The situation must not be allowed to deteriorate, which might be the result of a frontal assault.

  And that meant that our office would soon be flooded with European businessmen. They would want to bring Van Limburg Stirum under their influence. And it wasn’t something impossible either! There were many governors-general kept in the Algemeene Secretariat’s grip for as long as big business’s tribute to our high officials was considered adequate.

  I could just see how the game was going to unfold. And because I was in charge of Native affairs, I held the key to the whole situation. Just one yes, a scribble of my signature, and I would be rolling in money. . . .

  So the days passed and there was less and less work to do. I was like a spider waiting in the center of my web for my victims to arrive. It would be at most a month and then the businessmen would start arriving at my door. They would be very polite and engage in quite entertaining chatter, offering me this and that. I would be able to get anything I wanted, everything would come flowing in, whatever I desired and longed for. I would play hard to get with all my superiors. My signature as the official expert must be able to produce at least a hundred or two hundred times my monthly salary. How easy life would be, how happy I would be.

  With there being so little work, I used the time to return to my study of Raden Mas Minke’s manuscripts. My nights were free now too, so I had time to enjoy myself and all the pleasures of the world.

  The evening arrived when I had arranged for Rientje de Roo to stay over with me at my house.

  I must, of course, note down something about this remarkable young prostitute who was the most expensive and popular girl in Betawi.

  She was perhaps no more than eighteen years old. If I have estimated her to be younger than she really is, it is only because she has a natural talent to keep her youthful look, or is very clever in looking after her body. She was very respectful, clever at conversation, and very clever at seeing to a man’s needs. The Dutch have a saying that good grapes need no wreath of flowers. And indeed, she never needed to advertise herself anywhere. And she never had a free day, she was always in demand. If I had not been such an important person or as generous, I would probably have to wait a month at least.

  Earlier in the afternoon I had ordered my servant to clean up my bedroom. The mattresses had to be changed. I myself sprinkled the sheets with eau de cologne. There were wreaths of flowers in every room that she might visit that night.

  That evening after bathing, I inspected myself before the mirror. My stomach was beginning to bulge. My cheeks were beginning to droop. There was one more chicken-claw mark at the corner of my eyes. But at least, thank goodness, my skin was not yet wrinkling up. Who knows how much longer the skin on my face will hold up? How quickly time passes.

  But I felt that I was on top of everything. Was it really possible that I would suffer the same fate as other people? That experience called death? At the very least, I was sure I would reach the age of eighty years. I felt as if I had lost none of the strength I had when I was eighteen years old. Many women wanted me—Pure-Bloods, Eurasians, let alone Natives. And while a man feels he is attractive, he can never grow old! He will always remain young! Eternal youth. See, my skin is not at all dr
ied out like my wife’s.

  If Rientje de Roo were not a prostitute, I am sure she would want to be my wife. And what if she were my wife? Would life be merrier? At the moment that beautiful girl belonged to whoever could pay. Even though I knew that was the case, I preferred her to the Japanese or Chinese, or Natives. I had lost all interest in European women.

  Looking into the mirror, I also conjured up the image of Rientje, her skin, the way she treated me. Not a single flaw. For a moment I was reminded of the beautiful girl that Raden Mas Minke had described. Her name had been Annelies. And if the Modern Pitung praised a woman’s beauty, there could be no doubt that she would have been incredibly beautiful. And perhaps Rientje could have rivaled her. But I wasn’t dreaming of some beauty while hiding behind Minke’s name. Minke wasn’t here now, and this was my own dream. Except I did not need to dream about Rientje. There was no need to win her as proof of my manhood as Minke had been challenged to do by Robert Suurhof. It was enough for me to summon her, and she would come.

  There is something else that is worth noting down here about this woman. During the last few years, stories had circulated that since Suurhof became an invalid, two other men had died fighting over the chance to be with her. Three others had been severely injured. A merchant had gone bankrupt trying to outbid another client. But Pangemanann needed only to summon, and she would surely come.

  I put on a long tie—they were just becoming fashionable in the Indies. The deep blue tie stood out peacefully against my white shirt. Then, before I had put on my trousers, there was a knock on the door. Without waiting for my permission, my servant, cheeky as usual, came in and said: “You have guests, Tuan.”

  “I’m not seeing anybody tonight, not until tomorrow. Tell them I’ve gone.”

  “But it is the police, Tuan, from Betawi.”

  “The police?”

  “Tell him I am not here.”

  “He’s already sat himself down, Tuan.”

  “Jesus Christ!”

  I hurriedly pulled on my trousers and left the room without looking back.

  A police agent first class was squatting on a low bench some distance away from the divan. His hat was lying on the floor. He was wearing leggings but no shoes. He jumped up and saluted when he saw me come in.

  “Sarimin!” I knew his name.

  “It is I, Meneer.”

  “Who gave orders for you to come here?”

  “I have some business, Meneer, very, very important business.”

  “Come on then, tell me. I am busy tonight.”

  “She won’t be arriving, Meneer.”

  “You’re a cheeky bastard, aren’t you? Where do you get the cheek to speak like that?”

  “That is why Police Agent First Class Sarimin is here, Meneer. Noni Rientje won’t be coming.”

  For a moment I was quite startled and then I studied his face very closely.

  “Who is Noni Rientje?” I asked.

  “She lives in Gondangdia.”

  “I don’t know her.”

  “You have been with her eight times,” he said firmly.

  What was this mad policeman up to? Was he here to question me?

  “Sit down, Sarimin,” I ordered, and he sat down. “Now tell me clearly who was it that told you to come here.”

  “I am on a case, Meneer.”

  For a second time, I was caught off guard. My mind’s eye began to picture Rientje de Roo being interrogated and telling about me and Robert Suurhof.

  “Stop beating around the bush. What case?”

  “Noni Rientje, Meneer.”

  “What about her?”

  “She’s been murdered.”

  He told me what happened down to the smallest detail. She had been last seen with a young Chinese man.

  “Why are you telling me all this?”

  “Because your name was also mentioned.”

  “My name?”

  “Mentioned eight times in relation to eight meetings.”

  “Who mentioned me?”

  “It’s all here, Meneer.” He took out a red leather notebook. “It’s all written down here, Meneer, all important people, Meneer, including you.”

  “Let me see that book.”

  “This book is not leaving my hands, Meneer. Only Police Agent Sarimin has the right to read this.” He spoke without looking at me, his head bowed.

  “So Rientje is dead? Really dead?”

  “Dead, Meneer. But the book she left behind is not dead, Meneer. A prostitute who kept a notebook. I have never come across this before.”

  I knew that my reputation was in danger. I knew that I could not be connected to the murder. But it was almost certain that Robert Suurhof was involved, and if my connection with him became known it could do me a lot of damage as well as shame me. “What does it say about me?”

  “It is all here, Meneer.”

  “Let me read it.”

  “You don’t need to read it,” he said. “Do you know Noni Rientje de Roo’s handwriting?”

  “No.”

  “Then I’m right, you don’t need to read it.”

  “Has anyone else in the police read it?”

  “Only me, Meneer, just me, really.”

  “Very well. How much money do you want, Sarimin?”

  Only then did he look at me. Just for a moment. Then he bowed his head again.

  “One of our children is getting married soon, Meneer.”

  “You’re not marrying anyone off. You’re just going to gamble, that’s all. You never win, but you go on playing anyway. Fifteen. Enough?”

  He laughed, the rotten blackmailer.

  “Twenty?”

  “You get about a thousand a month, Meneer, maybe more.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “It all costs money, Meneer. Even the taxi to bring me here.”

  “Is there any mention of Robert Suurhof?”

  “Everything Meneer can guess is in here,” he said, patting the notebook as he spoke. Then he put it back in his pocket.

  “Twenty-five.”

  “You remember the name Princess Kasiruta, Meneer, I’m sure. Her name is in here too. You needn’t worry, Meneer.”

  “Who is this Princess Kasiruta?” I asked, pretending to be amazed. No doubt Suurhof had talked about the time she defended her husband with a pistol.

  He didn’t answer. He stood up, ready to excuse himself.

  “Fifty, Sarimin.”

  “Useless, Meneer.”

  “I will pay you in lead.”

  “Lead will be repaid with lead, Meneer.”

  “One hundred! That’s eight months’ salary for you.”

  “My duty is worth more than eight months’ salary, Meneer. Even three times that amount would not make me betray my duty.”

  “When did you learn to blackmail people, Sarimin?”

  “You should be able to answer that question better than I, Meneer Pangemanann.” He began to raise his hands to salute good-bye. “Your job should be worth more to you than nine times one hundred guilders.”

  He wanted nine hundred guilders, this filthy blackmailer in his policeman’s uniform. Rientje de Roo never got more than twenty guilders from me, on top of food and transport. But Sarimin knew that I would lose everything if that book became public—position, money, and reputation. While I also knew that I could not afford to pay that much.

  “How much do you want, Sarimin?”

  “Nine hundred.”

  “That’s a great deal.”

  “Just by picking up the phone you can get ten times that amount.”

  “So you say!”

  “You received all the wealth and belongings of Raden Mas Minke.”

  “Who said that?”

  “Everybody.”

  God! Everybody. This is a rumor spread by the supporters of the Modern Pitung! That’s the only explanation. Perhaps Sarimin is one of his admirers too.

  “Who do you mean, ‘everybody’?”

  “I will onl
y say in a court. Isn’t this Raden Mas Minke’s house?”

  The rumors are as bad and evil as that. I wanted to smash his head in.

  “You’re a member of the Sarekat!” I accused him. “I will have you investigated!”

  “Very well then, Meneer. We will face each other in court. Forgive me. My taxi has been waiting a long time.”

  For a moment I thought of calling the palace security and getting them to help me seize the book. But it was impossible. That way even more people would know about the book’s existence.

  “Sarimin!” I called out.

  He stopped, but did not come back. I was forced to walk out to him.

  “Very well, Sarimin. Nine hundred. But I don’t have that much on me. You’ll have to take three hundred as a deposit.”

  “Very well, Meneer. But the book will have to stay with me.”

  “Come back and I will give you the money.”

  But he was too clever to come back inside. I was going to threaten him with my revolver. I was forced to use what was left of my month’s wages—three hundred guilders. He refused to give a receipt, and even seemed a bit reluctant to take the money, and he said: “You will call on me at my house in one week’s time to pay the rest and get this book.”

  “You are a real bastard, Sarimin!”

  “I think there are worse bastards than me, Meneer. A lowly policeman, that was me, perhaps until I was pensioned off!”

  He bowed, excused himself, grasping the three hundred in his hand. And I had no idea how I was going to get the rest of the money within seven days.

  Back inside the house, I collapsed onto the sofa. Impotent in my anger, I felt all alone in the world. Everywhere I looked I saw a threat. I felt like the girl from Jepara’s father must have felt, and Siti Soendari’s father. I was afraid of losing my position, which meant losing everything. In the old days, I had never once been confronted with an extortionist. Now even a lowly constable dared do this to me! Perhaps I was no longer walking in the field of mud, but had sunk completely beneath it!

  Then a thought came to me. A smile came to my face. Why should I be afraid? I too can do this! I can blackmail people who have far more than I, rich people, people who have more than they need of everything.