Child of All Nations (8 page)

From the beginning my suspicions were aroused. Perhaps his opinions were only secondhand too—he didn’t read Dutch. And he didn’t normally speak for so long at once. I didn’t like being lectured to like this. If all he wanted to do was to free himself from his dependence on me, I didn’t see why he had to start off with a speech. It was his right to stand on his own feet. It was good if he felt he could stand alone now. I too would join in thanking God.

But the way he delivered his little speech made me feel he was letting out some suppressed emotion, ready to explode.

“Yes, Jean?”

“There is something I feel is a great pity. Something that thousands of other people feel is a great pity too: Why do you only write in Dutch? Who do you only speak to the Dutch and the others who understand their language? You owe nothing to them, just as your mother once told you. What do you expect from them that makes you want to speak only to them?”

My prejudice made me feel his words were jumping out at
me, without any humility: arrogant, piercingly lecturing, even reprimanding me. My anger welled up and overflowed. I sensed he was preparing to entrap me. He wanted me to write in Malay so that he himself could read my writings directly, while destroying my fame and achievement and prestige. I gazed at him with bulging, angry eyes.

“Are you angry, Minke?” he asked in an arrogant tone of voice.

I restrained my fury. Whatever else, he was my friend, not an enemy. He must not become a former friend. Perhaps he simply didn’t want to face reality: my character, my individuality, could not be separated from the Dutch language. To separate these things would only make this person named Minke nothing better than roadside rubbish.

“So you want me to write in Malay,” I asked, “so that no one will read what I write? In a language that you can understand?”

“You’ve got it wrong, Minke. I personally am not a factor in this. I’m only speaking like this for your own benefit. Malay is used more than any other language in the Indies, much more than Dutch.”

I rejected his proposition. “Why don’t you accept reality? Only those with little or no education read Malay.”

Jean seemed to be offended, perhaps because he himself couldn’t speak Dutch. And indeed I wanted him to be offended, to be hurt. His heart must suffer the hurt that mine was now feeling.

However he then whispered harshly: “You’re an educated Native! While Native people are not educated, it is you who must ensure they become educated. You must, must, must speak to them in a language they understand.”

“Malay readers are, at the most, only uneducated European Mixed-Bloods who work in the plantations and factories.”

“Don’t belittle,” he said more harshly. “Do you consider Kommer uneducated? He writes in Malay. He translates your writings into Malay. Do you think it was Dutchmen who defended you in your difficulties? How many of those uneducated ones were prepared to go to jail to defend you? And for how long? They defended your marriage because of Kommer’s translations, because of Kommer’s writings, not because of your Dutch articles.”

“You’re lying!”

“That’s what Kommer said.”

“You’re a liar!” I roared.

“He understands Natives better than you!” he hissed in accusation. “You don’t know your own people.”

“You’re going way too far now!”

“Through the Malay readers, even the illiterate eventually found out. Their feelings were moved, their sense of justice was offended—”

I left his house, no longer able to control my fury. I went straight to the buggy, jumped aboard, and ordered Marjuki to get going.

“Just had an argument, Young Master?” Marjuki asked.

I didn’t answer.

The buggy started off. From behind I could hear the sharp-pitched cries of little Maysoroh Marais: “Uncle! Uncle!”

Damn! Keep going, Juki! Maysoroh be damned as well! It’s no loss to me if I no longer know you. Then suddenly the words of Marais from two years ago echoed in my mind: “You are educated! You must be fair and just—beginning with your thoughts.”

Have I been just? I turned around. The little girl was still chasing after the buggy, crying out and calling me to come back. Was it right for me to treat her this way, this child who had done me no wrong? Was my treatment of her father proper? Was I right that he only wanted me to write in a language that he knew? What has this girl done to you, Minke?

“Go back!” I ordered Marjuki.

“Go back where, Young Master?”

“To where we’ve just come from. Stop by that little girl.”

By the time we reached May, she was panting desperately. I jumped down. Her face was wet with tears and her hand was still waving futilely in the air. I picked her up and carried her.

“What’s the matter, May?”

Between her sobs she said in French: “Don’t be angry with Papa. Uncle is Papa’s only friend.”

That truly cut my heart. I hurriedly whispered in her ear: “No, May, I’m not angry with your papa. Truly, I’m not. Let’s go home.”

“Uncle shouted so loudly at Papa,” she protested.

“I won’t shout at your papa again, May,” I promised.

“I prepared a drink for you,” she spoke again, “and you wanted to leave, just like that. Doesn’t Uncle love May any more?”

Wiping away her tears with a handkerchief, I carried her back inside the house on my shoulder. Jean Marais was still sitting, thinking. He didn’t lift his eyes to look at me, as if he no longer wanted to know me. Maysoroh ran out to the back and returned with drinks. Then she rushed to her father’s side. Her clearly spoken words were interspersed with sobs: “Papa, Uncle is not angry with you anymore.”

Jean Marais was silent.

I regretted everything that had happened, as did he. I swallowed the drink May had brought. I caressed her hair, then excused myself.

“No!” protested May. She began to cry again. “You still haven’t spoken to Papa.” She collided into me, her red eyes moist, protesting in her own way. I too was now shedding tears. I ran to Jean Marais. I embraced him; I kissed him on his thickly whiskered cheeks: “Forgive me, Jean, forgive me.” I cried and Jean cried.

All this happened a week ago.

Now, with Nijman’s letter in my hand, I went to Jean’s place again. Eight-thirty in the morning. May was at school. Jean was painting. My anger would now avenge itself. Not only does Minke not need to write in Malay, but he has taken another step upward: He is going to do an interview in English.

He didn’t seem bothered by my arrival. I went up to him and began: “Jean, once more forgive me my unworthy behavior of the other day.”

Without turning, and while still sweeping the canvas with his brush, he answered: “I understand your difficulties, Minke. You’ve suffered a lot of sadness lately. You’re still in mourning. I was also in the wrong; I wasn’t very clever in choosing the time. Forget it, Minke. And more than that, it’s not right for me to interfere in how you dedicate your life. I didn’t mean anything bad by what I said.”

His pronouncement sounded long and formal—a warning bell.

“Of course, nothing bad would come from you.”

Now the moment had arrived for me to avenge his earlier
arrogance. I would show him the letter from Nijman so that he would know: Minke was always advancing. He would be startled. He must be startled. He had to understand just who this person Minke was.

“Jean, Nijman has written to me. He wants to see me at his office, but not to write in Dutch. You don’t agree, do you, with me writing in Dutch?” He put down his brush and stared at me in great surprise.

“It’s not that I don’t agree,” he answered, but didn’t continue.

“Nijman has asked me to write. Do you know in what, Jean? English!”

As if he understood that this was my revenge, his hand nervously sought his brush; he knocked it and it fell to the floor. He didn’t retrieve it. He brushed his hands on his trouser legs and then held one out to me. He said coldly: “Congratulations, Minke. You are indeed progressing.”

Now feel what it’s like! I shouted silently, thrilled, in my heart. Filled with my victory, I examined his paintings.

Following Dr. Martinet’s sales talk at my wedding, Jean had received many orders for portraits that didn’t come through me. He’d already finished more than ten paintings. The one of Dr. Martinet was the only one I recognized. Quite accurate, with the dusky sky as background. His eyes gazed at me without blinking. The point of his nose shone in its sharpness. I could recognize in the painting both Dr. Martinet and his kindness.

“Those pictures are all finished, Minke. They just need to be collected.” Suddenly he turned the conversation. “You’re still an admirer of Japan, Minke, aren’t you?”

“That’s right, Jean.”

He didn’t go on, but began to identify each of the portraits for me: this administrator, that official or police officer…as if showing off his triumphs, showing that he could succeed without me, and even succeed better.

“You’re doing very well too, Jean,” I praised him.

“No, Minke. None of this is the proper work of an artist. Just the work of a day-laborer, a coolie.”

“But these pictures are all of important people—all of them.”

“That’s got nothing to do with the art of painting. It’s only to make a living, not for making life fulfilling. There is nothing of
any importance that I want to say that I can put in those portraits. Except perhaps for the one of Dr. Martinet.”

“I understand your words, Jean, but not what you mean.” I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye, and my impression was that he wasn’t jealous of my success—he really was dissatisfied with his work.

“Do you remember Maiko, the Japanese prostitute?”

“Of course, Jean. That small, fragile woman?”

“Servicing people for no other reason than to make a living. I’m no different from Maiko. It makes me ashamed.”

“The comparison is extreme,” I said.

“Just think: I get paid for pleasing other people who have no spiritual or emotional relationship with me. In art, that’s called prostitution. You’re lucky to be able to pour out what you feel in your writings. I can’t.”

He limped across to the window on his crutches. With his back to me, he said: “So you’re still an admirer of Japan?”

“Why, Jean?”

“If all the Japanese didn’t want to write in their own language…”

Straight away I knew he was launching a counterattack. I returned to my earlier vigilance.

But he changed direction: “Do you remember what I once said about Jepara carving? I got more satisfaction out of working Jepara-type motifs into my furniture. At least it meant I was doing something to ensure that one of the beautiful creations of your people would be permanently preserved for others to see. I often hear from Kommer that the Javanese have many beautiful writings. I think that if I knew about Java, I’d be more happy translating them and bringing them to the French people than working like Maiko with all this.”

Now I was at an even greater loss to understand. Yet I had the feeling that with this puzzle too he was still on the attack.

“You’re confused, Jean.”

“Yes, I’m confused.”

We both went silent. I began to think over his words. Then all of a sudden the hidden meaning came to me, emerging as the meaning of one sentence linked up with another: an admirer of Japan…if all Japanese didn’t want to speak in their own language…preserve forever some of the beautiful creations of
Java…translate and bring them to the French people rather than work like Maiko.…yes. He was still on the attack. And I could sense that the purpose behind his attack was the same as before: to get me to change from writing in Dutch to writing in Malay or Javanese. It was clear he didn’t think much of my getting the English interview at all.

I steered his attention in another direction: “How’s the picture of my wife going, Jean?”

“Annelies is so beautiful and alluring. She doesn’t need any adornments. Her last experiences gave a special substance to her character. Only the brush stroke of a painter who truly knew her, Minke, can realize her potential as a subject for a portrait.”

I didn’t understand about art. So: “Naturally, Jean.”

“Moreover, I don’t need to lie to you or Nyai.” It seemed he was reading my thoughts. He stressed the word
lie
as if inviting me to recall our argument of a week ago.

“It’s not right to lie to a friend,” he said.

So he was still pushing me to write in Malay or Javanese. “If you’re in a hurry, Jean, I’ll meet May later,” I said, ending that unpleasant conversation.

“You’re always so kind, Minke.”

And I left him there with his thoughts.

I arrived too early at Nijman’s office. There was a Chinese youth sitting in the waiting room. His pigtail, his thau-cang, looked too long for his thin body. Its light brown color also didn’t seem right for his clear ivory-yellow skin. It was as though you could see the whole system of blood vessels through his transparent skin. But that too-long pigtail trailing right down to the waist! Strange! Long and not very thick. Not in balance with the round, fat, healthy red face. Just his face though; his body was gaunt. I looked at the thau-cang’s hairs again: coarse and very thick.

I don’t know why the pigtailed youth nodded to me, smiling so that his narrow eyes almost disappeared. His teeth became visible: few and far between and very sharp. His clothes of Shantung silk were ivory-yellow, clean but old. His reddish face reminded me of a guava fruit.

After nodding and smiling, he just sat silently and didn’t try to start a conversation.

I made a guess: This is the Chinese youth Nijman wants
interviewed. I was disappointed at the idea that this might be him—just a youth dressed in Shantung pajamas, without any shoes, with pointed and few-and-far-between teeth—just a
sinkeh
. There’s no way some sinkeh boy would have any business with a Dutch newspaper! And if this was the one, why didn’t he appear to be educated? Coming into a European’s office wearing pajamas, even if they were from Shantung silk. He looked more like a peddler from the villages. He wasn’t even wearing sandals, but was barefoot.

A Pure-Blood sinyo requested that I go upstairs to the editorial office. Nijman was writing at his desk. He put his quill back into the ink bottle, stood up, and shook hands with me. His words were merry, friendly, yet very polite and gentle.