House of Glass

by Pramoedya Ananta Toer

  It made me want to vomit.

  It was then I realized that all these organizations and their leaders were opportunists. The only exception was those active along the Semarang-Jogkarta line. And they would be swallowed up by the ocean of opportunists around them.

  So this was the political strategy of Van Limburg Stirum. And it seemed to work. Unrest outside the S-J region receded. The sugar mills calmly got back to work to meet the world demand for sugar that actually had not yet fully recovered. But His Excellency had told a delegation from the Algemeene Landbouw Syndicaat to increase production in all fields because the end of the war would mean increasing demand for the colony’s commodities. As if the gods themselves had breathed new life into them, the factories and plantations sprang back into production. The unrest outside the S-J region died down like a fire hosed down with cold water. And it seemed the Indies stood at the gateway to prosperity once again.

  The desire to get a seat in the volksraad or one of the provincial councils gave rise to new dreams—to become a public figure, to deliver speeches, to be listened to by fellow Honorable Members, while enjoying drinks paid for with appropriate wages, sometimes even greater than those of a bupati.

  From then on I began to see the first signs of an irreconcilable split among the Native organizations. One group wanted to cooperate with the government so that they could get seats in the volksraad, while the others refused to cooperate, saying that such cooperation meant humiliation for the Natives.

  I was able to follow all this but it no longer interested me. Opposition fever gave way to politics fever. Van Limburg Stirum’s strategy was clearly succeeding.

  Then came the finale—the opening of the volksraad on May 20, 1918. The Natives with seats were Mas Sewoyo, Mas Tjokro, and Tjipto, all appointed by the governor-general. Abdoel Moeis, Radjiman, and Abdoel Rivai were chosen by the Natives. Of the seventy or so representatives, only eight were Natives, including two bupatis appointed by the government.

  The organizations who missed out did not sit openmouthed in disappointment but competed even more actively to somehow get a seat. And so, without any official pronouncement, political activity and movements gained de facto legality.

  And I became even less and less interested, less and less concerned about any of it. To me it was all like drizzling rain falling on my heart, now slippery like a taro leaf, and then sliding off onto the ground to disappear forever. . . .

  Then on one fine clear day, while the organization epidemic spread everywhere, and more and more organizations sprang up merrily, and I sat turning over the pages of boring newspapers, my new boss came to see me for the first time.

  “Are you well enough to undertake a not very difficult chore, Meneer?” he asked; then he corrected himself. “I shouldn’t even say ‘not very difficult.’ In fact it is a very easy chore.”

  “I will try, Meneer.”

  “Excellent, Meneer Pangemanann. We have chosen you, Meneer, because you are the only official here with a French education.”

  I didn’t have the faintest interest and I knew there was no point in knowing why it was important that I had a French education. Everything is in God’s safe hands, not those of my superiors.

  “Can you go down to Betawi today?”

  “Of course, Meneer.”

  “Very good. The French consul will be waiting for you at ten o’clock.”

  “Very well, I will leave straightaway.”

  I had no real desire to find out what it was that I would have to do. For the umpteenth time now a car took me to Betawi. Throughout the journey I had no interest in knowing what was happening. I closed my eyes, I took out the rosary from my pocket, and I began to pray!

  The car arrived right on time. I had not been waiting long in the reception room, when I was invited inside to meet the French consul.

  “Meneer Pangemanann?” he asked in northern French. I said yes. “I am very happy that you have been able to come today. Your French is very good. Where did you study it?”

  I told him all about my education and he nodded happily. He obviously had no colonial experience. His attitude was proper, polite, and he did not at all look at me as a lesser being. I saw in him the Europe I had known long ago. I was humored somewhat. I felt lucky that I had once had the opportunity to live in a European environment that was not colonial.

  And even then I was not curious to know what task had brought me here.

  “According to the information I have been given by the Algemeene Secretariat, you are an expert in colonial affairs . . .”

  My heart began to pound.

  “. . . especially as concerns matters relating to the Native leaders here.”

  “Thank you, Monsieur, but I think that is somewhat of an exaggeration.”

  “Even so, you must know about a man called”—he took out a small notebook from his pocket, leafed through a few pages, and then read out, with both incorrect emphasis and spelling—“called . . . Raden Mas Minke. Forgive me if I haven’t pronounced it correctly.”

  I corrected his pronunciation and he repeated it several times and finished it with a thank you. Meanwhile my heart raced. The name I had not spoken for so long now sounded like a proclamation that some punishment was soon to befall me.

  “Are you ill, Monsieur?”

  “I am well, Monsieur,” I answered, gasping for breath.

  The consul seemed unsure and I firmed my resolve. I must have the strength to face whatever might come, because everything that was about to befall me came from God.

  He pressed a button and a European woman emerged carrying drinks. She paid her respects to me and then served the drinks. The consul invited me to drink and I drank. It felt cool and it was very refreshing. But I had no interest in asking what it was.

  The consul did not speak. He studied my countenance, while I could hear my every heartbeat. I waited for him to speak.

  Perhaps this representative of the French Republic would be the bearer of God’s punishment upon me. It was in a small church in the south of France that I had married Paulette Marcel, where we promised to go through life together, for better or worse. I had betrayed that promise because of the bottle. As a student I had sworn an oath to be loyal to the Republic. I was still a snot-nosed youth then, but I had made the promise in all sincerity. I had betrayed that oath too and given my allegiance instead to Dutch colonialism in the Indies. I don’t want to list all my betrayals here. Betrayal after betrayal—too many betrayals for me ever to redeem myself through anything I do in what remains of my life. And I had not admitted to even a small number of these in confession.

  “Are you sure you’re not sick?”

  “Yes, Monsieur.”

  “Would you like to listen to some French music before we talk?” Before I could answer he had stood up and started playing a record on his gramophone. “To remind you of France once again, Monsieur,” he said again as he sat down across from me. “You probably haven’t heard this voice for a long time, have you?”

  “May Le Boucq,” I said.

  I was suddenly startled as I heard myself say that name—Le Boucq. Le Boucq . . . Le Boucq . . . wasn’t that the name of the French painter, the veteran from the Aceh War whom Minke called Marais in his books? The former student at Louvain in Belgium? I listened once again to May Le Boucq’s voice. And in my mind, I saw a young, sprightly girl Minke had called Maysoroh Marais. From Maysoroh my thoughts wandered to someone called Rono Mellema, to Nyai Ontosoroh alias Madame Sanikem Marais, perhaps now known as Madame Sanikem Le Boucq.

  “Do you like her voice, Monsieur?” he asked after the music ended. He went across and turned off the machine and then came back to me.

  “Of course, Monsieur, and my children even more than I.”

  “Then let us begin, Monsieur, yes?”

  “Certainly. Let’s begin.”

  “May Le Boucq rendered great service to France during the war that has just ended. It is very possible that the Republic may one day honor
her for that. Have you ever met her?”

  “I left France twenty-five years ago, Monsieur.”

  “Yes, of course, you haven’t met her. I have been luckier, Monsieur. I have met her. Perhaps you could say I am even a very good friend.”

  It was possible indeed that this polite French consul was the bearer of God’s punishment for me. As we proceeded I began to get an idea of the direction we were heading, toward the place where my sentence would be carried out.

  “Are you certain you are not ill, Monsieur?”

  “I am well, Monsieur, really,” I said, smiling, and I could feel my blood pressure rise, perhaps it was already over 180. My head began to sway and my vision began to go hazy. I felt my throat and discovered that I did not have a temperature. No, I must be strong, I must finish this task. If it was true I was about to receive God’s punishment, then I must accept it with dignity, with resignation and trust in God. What meaning would there be to my life if in the little time that remains I lose my dignity altogether?

  “Should I call a doctor?”

  “No, Monsieur, I am all right, don’t worry. Please go on.”

  Hesitantly he continued: “It’s like this, Monsieur. I received a very earnest request from May Le Boucq that I help her mother, Madame Sanikem Le Boucq, find this man, Raden Mas Minke. Madame Le Boucq should be here in about a quarter of an hour.”

  My vision went black. I gripped hold of the arm rests so that I would not fall off my chair. And once again I told myself that I had to accept all this with dignity, resignation, and trust in God. And so I regained my strength.

  “I think I should call a doctor.”

  “Truly, Monsieur, it is not necessary.”

  “Is it true that you know a lot about this man she is looking for?”

  “I know something of him, Monsieur.”

  “That is excellent. Madame Le Boucq has been in Betawi for a week now. She has gone to Buitenzorg, Sukabumi, and Bandung looking for Monsieur Minke. She has had no success. She heard that this gentleman had recently returned from exile in Ambon.” He stopped speaking, and looked out the window into the main street, and: “Nah, here is Madame Le Boucq now with her pretty daughter.”

  My vision was clear again. I would now face Sanikem, the spiritual mother of Minke. What a coward I would be if I fainted here now, and what an even greater coward if I postponed finally dealing with this matter.

  Monsieur Consul invited me to stand to welcome Madame Le Boucq. And he seemed to give the same respect he gave all people, even myself, who meant nothing to him, let alone to Sanikem.

  Sanikem was walking toward the consulate’s veranda. Holding her hand was a European girl who looked about seven years old. The little girl seemed friendly and talkative. Sanikem herself looked healthy and full of life.

  She must be over forty-five now, I think. Or fifty. Why does she look so young? And her eyes did not show her age at all. She wore a white silk dress decorated with pictures of little flowers, a slim leather belt around her waist, while in her left hand she carried a crocodile-skin bag. Her steps were firm and strong as if she hadn’t even reached thirty-five yet.

  Her skin was much clearer than that of women who lived all their life in the tropics. Her harsh face was adorned by a smile of infinite beauty. So this was, if what Minke had written was true, the village girl who had been sold by her own father and in her emptiness had then inhaled European civilization and made it her own. This was the Native woman who had been able to maintain her desire for revenge against the colonial government in the Indies and had found many ways to wreak her vengeance.

  This was that strong-willed person who had given up nationality, homeland, and village and who had chosen foreign citizenship and had been able to put it to use in no less effective a way than those who had been born citizens. She had chosen freedom for herself. The Law had stolen everything that she had built, but she had not lost anything, especially not her dignity. She had lost her children, yet she held her head high, and knew that life was always a possibility.

  And myself?

  When the consul introduced me to her and we shook hands, I could feel a rapier of steel thrust into my heart. I was no more than a contemptible animal who deserved nothing but to be kicked and trodden upon. She had striven to build so much and she had done so without leaving behind a single groaning victim.

  “Monsieur Pangemanann, I am very pleased to make your acquaintance,” she said in very good and fluent French, except that her accent gave her away as being not of French origin. And then little Jeannette Le Boucq chirped away, introducing herself to me as well.

  Be strong, be strong, I told myself. And to overcome the feelings of how small I felt, I asked Jeannette: “So you are the little sister of May Le Boucq, the famous singer?”

  “Of course I am, Monsieur, I am her sister. And I can sing too, can’t I, Mama?” she put the question to her mother.

  “You will be able to do whatever you like,” answered Madame Sanikem Le Boucq, “and not only sing but warble like a bird.”

  She leaned up against me, then shrank away, as if she could sense who I really was.

  The consul suggested we get down to business, and then Madame Le Boucq told of all her efforts to find Minke, that she had received a telegram from Surabaya informing her that Minke had been released, and that her other adopted child had also searched for him in Betawi and West Java but had not been able to find him.

  I listened to her and came to the conclusion that Meneer Darman from the Molukken company in Surabaya as well as Madame Le Boucq herself had visited the house in Buitenzorg. It could have been either while I was at the office or when I was laid up in the hospital. My maid had not told me. I did not blame her for that because the visitors would not have asked for me but for Minke.

  “So you must know then where my son is,” said Madame.

  “Of course, Madame.”

  She looked so full of joy.

  “Could we perhaps visit him today?”

  I quickly prayed that the Virgin Mother would protect me and that I would find the strength to go on. I found the strength, and I answered cautiously but resolutely: “Certainly, Madame. The only thing is that Monsieur Minke is dead.”

  “Dead?!” she cried out, her eyes looking as if they were about to launch out of their sockets. “Dead?!” She went silent all of a sudden. She cried.

  The consul bowed his head deeply. He straightened up again, sighed deeply, and observed me.

  “Who died, Mama?” asked Jeannette.

  I stood and offered my hand in condolence to Madame. She accepted my hand and her eyes glowed, burning up everything they came into contact with. Her countenance seemed to grow harder, more severe, springing from a spirit that had a strength that refused to share itself with pity. I saw no sadness in her, just bitterness, yes, only bitterness.

  The consul stood and took his turn in expressing his condolences.

  Jeannette hugged her mother around the waist, her face looking up at her mother, and asked: “Who died, Mama? Uncle?”

  Madame Le Boucq alias Sanikem alias Nyai Ontosoroh looked down and gazed into her daughter’s face, nodding in answer: “Yes, your beloved uncle has died, Jeannette. Your uncle whom we had come here to find.”

  She sat down again, her lips trembling as she held back tears. Jeannette leaned up against her lap and showered her with unanswered questions.

  “Madame,” said the consul, “I never guessed it would come to this, Madame, truly I didn’t.”

  “Did he die in Betawi?” Madame asked me.

  “Yes, Madame.”

  “What did the doctor say about his illness?”

  Her question made me nervous because I knew that the report about how he died was not in order and that Dr. Meyersohn had examined him but that it was the youth with the whip and the knife who declared it was dysentery.

  “It was reported that it was dysentery.”

  “Who was the doctor who treated him?”

 
“I don’t know that, Madame,” I answered, and I was tortured by the realization that once again I had lied. It seemed I was indeed a liar, prepared to lie to a woman who was seeking a loved one. I didn’t have the courage to resist.

  “Of course you won’t know everything, Monsieur,” she said in a somewhat cutting voice. “But you must know who was the last doctor to examine him.”

  “If you need that information, I should be able to find it for you, Madame, certainly.”

  “Thank you, Monsieur Pangemanann. May I ask you one more thing? Could you take us to the grave?”

  “I’d be very happy to, Madame, whenever you like.”

  “Monsieur Consul,” she said, “now that we know how things are, I wonder if you would permit us to visit the grave now.”

  “If that is what Madame wishes . . . let me arrange transport for you.” He stood and left the room. He returned a moment later and said that a taxi would arrive soon.

  I managed to make sure that I sat next to the driver in order that I might escape the increasing flood of questions from this woman, who had the ability to see through everything that she studied. I felt that she had begun to be suspicious of me because of my hesitant answer about Minke’s illness and the name of the doctor who handled his case. Every educated person would be suspicious about his death, even though at this time a certificate of cause of death from a doctor was not required by law. The fact that Goenawan had gone completely silent since Minke’s burial was possibly also because he was afraid that he and his family could become embroiled with the police.

  It was only Jeannette who was preoccupied with the scenery along the way, crying out in amazement again and again. Madame Le Boucq remained calm, simply answering her daughter’s questions whenever required.

  On the other hand I was thrown into more and more disarray. The woman behind me had crossed two oceans to find a loved one. And that person had been destroyed while in my hands. He had been destroyed, but he had finished what he had begun. From that beginning he had multiplied himself into so many other people, spreading like fireflies throughout Java. Perhaps tomorrow or the next day they would spread outside Java too. If he had never started that beginning, then Pangemanann with two ns would never have sat in the Algemeene Secretariat, and I also would not have had to handle this little job, a job that could kill me.