Child of All Nations (15 page)

Out of a gloomy Rembrandt-like background there emerged the face of my angel, like the moon coming out from behind clouds. Yes, it was only that overcast that had threatened her life—so young, pure, beautiful, without equal. I saw once again that hair of hers which I had so many times caressed, the smoothness of her clear skin, the almost imperceptible furrows on her forehead. She was my wife, my Annelies, always so spoiled with my embraces.

“When it’s finished,” said Jean, “you mustn’t put the picture up for everybody to see, Minke.”

“I’ve got to just store it away?”

“Put it in the most beautiful cover you can find. You don’t need to look at it again. You could go mad.”

Jean Marais wasn’t talking nonsense. Every time I looked at that unfinished picture my heart started to gallop and my thoughts began to wander.

“Put it in a cover of beautiful grape-red velvet, Minke. I will make one for you.”

“Will it be ready, do you think, when I leave Surabaya?”

“So it’s true you’re going to Betawi?”

“I have the right to grow and develop too, don’t I?”

“You are right, Minke; while you are too close to Nyai you will not develop.” He smiled broadly, but I didn’t know what he was smiling at. “You haven’t the same charisma. You need to be in another place, another region, breathing other air, with other opportunities, other possibilities.”

He wouldn’t let go when I excused myself. “Don’t rush off. There is something else.”

“How is May doing at school?”

“She seems a bit behind.”

“Perhaps she’s too busy at home, Jean.”

“Perhaps. What’s the point of being clever if you’re not happy at home? Learning to work is also important—learning to build a life. School is no more than something to finish things off, isn’t it?”

“When I have a child, perhaps I will think the same way.”

“There’s no need to copy me. My outlook is based upon this deformity of mine. Without her near me I feel so alone. What do you think of this picture, Minke?”

“You’re brilliant, Jean.”

“I have never painted so well. It should be hanging on the walls of the Louvre. You must see Paris, Minke: The palaces, gardens, statues, the most beautiful works of art in the history of mankind—the most beautiful and most grand, the biggest churches. There is nothing that rivals them… I’m sorry, I shouldn’t boast about the achievements of my own ancestors.”

“Keep going, Jean. France is indeed greatly admired, by my teachers at school too. I am only their student and haven’t ever been to France.”

“A guest will be arriving soon.” Jean Marais turned the line
of conversation. “Kommer. Maybe another ten minutes. You should see him.”

“So he comes here often?”

“We have a little business together. He’s asked me to design a trap to catch a black panther,” he said, continuing with his painting.

There was a sound of footsteps, and Kommer walked in carrying a leather briefcase. He shook hands with me. When he offered his hand to Jean, he didn’t take it, just nodded.

“You’re angry with me?” asked Kommer.

“It’s not a good idea to shake hands with a painter at work, Kommer.” He smiled.

Kommer laughed: “You believe in that superstition?”

“It’s not that. The paint has poison in it. Let me wash my hands first.”

“And how are you, Mr. Minke?” asked Kommer. “You haven’t written anything for a long time.”

Jean hobbled back and straight away butted in: “Mr. Kommer, Minke was once very angry with me for doing no more than suggesting he write in Malay. You try to talk to him.”

Now I was being incited to explode again, after my disappointment with Nijman. I attacked: “What can you say in Malay? An impoverished language like that? Riddled with borrowed words from every country in the world? And even to say ‘I am not an animal,’ you need all these borrowed words.”

“Very true.” Kommer smiled broadly. From out of his bag he took several newspapers and put them on the table. “Look, Mr. Minke. This is the
Pelapor Betawi.
This is the
Bintang Surabaya
from Surabaya. Of course you must know it, or at least have heard its name. This is the
Taman Sari.
This new newspaper, the
Penghantar
, is from faraway Ambon. In Javanese? You can see for yourself, here—
Retno Doemilah, Djawi Kondo.
This one is in Malay, from East Sumatra,
Percikan Barat.
Nah, here is a pile of auction and advertisement papers. All published in Surabaya. You know them all. Study them page by page. All of them owned by Dutchmen, Eurasians, and one of them,
Percikan Barat
, by a Chinaman.”

I couldn’t see where his chattering was leading.

“Yes, Minke, it is not Natives who feel it is important to
report the news in Malay or Javanese. Fantastic, isn’t it, Mr. Minke. Not Natives. And it isn’t Natives either who feel it is important to encourage Malay and Javanese to develop and grow as languages. An impoverished language? Certainly. Everything is born into this world with no more than a body and a spirit. You are no exception to that rule.”

My heart no longer felt incited to explode. The reality of it all was making me gasp.

“I myself have just started with the
Primbon Soerabaya.
Just forget my own involvement in it for a moment. Take a look for yourself at all these newspapers that are introducing the Natives to a wider world, to the world of humanity. Looked at in that way, can’t you agree that their contribution to the advancement of Natives is indeed outstanding? Even though the Natives don’t recognize that contribution or feel they’re being helped? Especially when none is able to afford a subscription so that they have to join together to be able to read them?”

It seemed Kommer’s speech was going to go on and on, even though it was helping me to understand the situation of the Malay press.

“Nah! Minke, it’s not me that’s talking now. It’s Mr. Kommer.” Once again Jean began to interfere. “If you still want to be angry, be angry with him.”

But I wasn’t angry, just bored. Kommer’s way of presenting things was different and didn’t anger me: He was actually inviting me to understand the issues. Then the Eurasian Mixed-Blood journalist arranged all the papers in such a way that they just called out to be read. My hands grasped out at one page, another page, and another page. I examined their appearance and typography, the columns, bent and untidily joined together, the wavelike lines, the uneven print.

“The typography!” I protested.

“Yes. Still not very good. The Dutch papers aren’t perfect yet either. The point is the things that can be passed on to the Malay reader—issues that touch significantly the interests of the readers themselves. Not just things affecting Europeans.”

I understood all that he was saying. But my heart still wouldn’t accept it.

“You could begin to learn to write in Malay, Minke,” Jean Marais began again.

“Yes, you can see for yourself”—now Kommer got his bit in—“Malay is understood and read in every town, big and small, throughout the Indies. Dutch is not.”

I was still examining the Malay-language newspapers. There were too many advertisements and the serialized stories took too prominent a place on the front page. They all carried serials, most of them foreign.

“It won’t be long, Mr. Minke. Once you begin writing in Malay, you’ll soon discover the key to it. That you have mastered Dutch so well is, of course, deserving of great admiration. But to write in Malay, your own people’s language, is a sign of your love for your country and people.”

All of a sudden he stopped. He was probably preparing a whole new set of demands. So it was not only Mother, but also Jean Marais, also Kommer, who were making demands of me. And now Kommer—a person whose origins I knew nothing about at all—had appeared before me like a prosecutor with a shortage of victims. And I was not angered. But if I accepted these demands now, there could be no doubt that tomorrow or the day after other new demands would follow.

“Are you making demands of me, Mr. Kommer?”

“Yes, I think, indeed, that is the case.”

“And do I not have the right to reject them?”

“Of course, Mr. Minke. He who emerges at the top of his society will always face demands from that society—it is his society that has allowed him to rise. You must know the Dutch proverb, ‘The tall tree catches much wind.’ If you don’t want to catch so much wind, don’t grow so tall.”

“Where is there a tall tree that can turn away the wind?” Jean Marais backed Kommer up.

“The important thing, Mr. Minke, is loyalty to one’s own country and people.”

This Eurasian Mixed-Blood was getting more and more out of hand in his rudeness. Mother had argued the same point without pressuring or pushing. Kommer was not just asking, hoping, demanding. He was pushing me into a corner. And still he didn’t seem satisfied. He added: “Who gives a damn if Europeans want to read Malay or not? Just think about it: Who will urge Natives to speak out if their own writers, such as yourself, won’t do it?”

“Why do you write in Malay, Kommer?” It was my turn to
interrogate. “You are not a Native. You’re more European than Native.”

He laughed. He didn’t answer quickly. The whole of my attention was focused on him. The skin of his face, burned by the sun, shone with sweat. He groped in his pocket for a handkerchief, but he didn’t wipe his face. He rubbed his lips and the tips of his teeth. With a smile that was both a little upset and a little amused, he said, “Look, Mr. Minke, lineage is not important. Loyalty to this country and people, sir. This is my country and my people, not Europe. Only my name is Dutch. It is not impossible for a non-Native to love this country and people. Look around you. Natives are so still, so quiet, so alone—they never speak with anyone outside themselves. Day and night their lives revolve around just one pivot, in the same space, in the same circle. Busy with their own dreams. Just the same thing over and over again. I’m sorry.”

His words were becoming more twisted and winding. And I was more and more caught up by them: “An unbearable life, Mr. Minke. Anyone who is aware of this condition must surely try to speak to them. To speak face to face with such a huge number of people is, of course, impossible. That is why I write, one person speaking to many.”

Whether he knew it or not, he was lighting my way, my life as a writer. I saw him anew, as a teacher without a name, a great man without origins. I respected him, even loved him, as if he were a part of my own body and brain. He had no hesitation in stating ideas he felt were true. He was a little prophet.

“Minke,” Jean Marais interrupted again, “I can’t express myself well. Mr. Kommer speaks for me also. I too have hopes for you—my heart still can’t bring itself to demand—you must speak to your own people. You are needed by your own people much more than you are needed by any other people anywhere. Europe and Holland will not miss your absence.” He was silent a moment as he looked at me, waiting for my anger to sweep down upon his head. “See, you aren’t angry with Mr. Kommer, are you?” He was silent again, awaiting my reaction.

I didn’t react at all. Kommer’s words were as a great surging wave, moving, alive, shifting me away from earlier opinions.

“If I were a writer, I would write in my own language.
Because I am a painter, my language is color, a language between people, not between peoples.”

“So there is no need to study other peoples’ languages, especially those of Europe?” I asked.

“Nobody has said that. Without studying the languages of other peoples, especially European languages, we wouldn’t understand foreign peoples. And, equally, if you don’t study your own language you can never understand your own people.” Kommer answered quickly, as if he had readied such a reply.

My question seemed childish, like foam frothed on the surging wave that was Kommer.

“And without knowing other peoples,” he continued without letting me regain my composure, “we will never come to know our own society properly either.”

I felt like Romulus and Remus, the twins who founded Rome, being suckled by a wolf.

“Why aren’t you saying anything, Minke?” Jean Marais returned with his own small wave. “We are talking to your conscience, not just playing at moving our lips. Have you still an excuse for not writing in your own tongue?”

The great wave came again: “People of whatever race who do not write in their own language are usually seeking their own self-satisfaction. They do not care about the needs of the people who give them life. Most of them do not know their own people.”

Do not know their own people! The accusation went too far; it was like a blow from a blunt adze. And it hurt even more that it came from people who weren’t Natives: from an Indo and a Frenchman. In their eyes I didn’t know my own people. Me!

“You still haven’t spoken,” Jean pressed.

“He needs time to think things over, Mr. Marais. Remember
Multatuli
, Mr. Minke. ‘If the Dutch won’t read or print my writings,’ he said, ‘I will translate them into Native languages—Malay, Javanese, and Sudanese.’ He was your own teacher, and indeed he did go on to write in Malay.”

“You think I don’t know my own people.”

“The truth is often painful. But that is it, more or less. From your articles, it seems that you know more about Dutchmen and Indos.”

“That’s not true. I speak excellent Javanese.”

“That doesn’t mean you know the Javanese people. Have you ever known the villages and hamlets of Java, where most of our people live? You’ve only passed through them. Do you know what the farmers of Java eat, your own country’s farmers? Most Javanese are farmers. The Javanese peasant farmers are your people.”

“And what do you mean by ‘know’?” I grabbed at whatever straw I could to save myself from the surging wave around me.

Perhaps because he saw that my blood pressure was rising, Kommer headed off in another direction: “I have another appointment. Mr. Marais, where is the design for that panther trap?”

Marais pulled out the desk drawer and extracted a sheet of paper. “This is the best possible, Mr. Kommer. You will get that black one, if the animal does indeed exist.”