Footsteps (10 page)

“That is because things are in the hands of the wrong
dalang
.”

“Mother, I will become a true dalang.”

“My child is already a man of letters. Now he wants to be a dalang too. What else do you want to be? You’ll no doubt become a doctor. You want to achieve so much! How much suffering you call down upon yourself, suffering that will knot you up inside even more, taking away your happiness. What will there be left for you to give to others, to Allah, to the gods? Your ancestors taught and received simple teachings. Your teachers teach about the unlimited potential of men. Your ancestors knew how to be grateful, even though they didn’t pronounce it with their mouths. You are taught to say thank you all the time, but your heart is deaf and dumb.”

“Doesn’t Mother want me to be a dalang?”

“Even though your mother does not like it, your teachers are taking you to some secret destination, across some infinite distance. When you were little you liked—you were even crazy about—
wayang
stories. Now you have forgotten them all. It’s up to you as to what you want to do. But don’t suffer so much, because suffering is a punishment.”

And how great was the chasm now that stood between mother and child. This was not just a historical chasm. What should it be called?

“There is punishment, my child, for all those who cannot place themselves in the order of things. If it were a star, it would
be a shooting star. If it were a forest, it would be a forbidden forest. If a stone, it would be a kidney stone, and if a tooth, an uneven one. Ah, you are bored listening to these words of your mother. Rest now, my child, rest, and enjoy your rest.”

Yes, I was exhausted from listening to the wave after wave of wisdom and of trying to pass this massive test.

“You know, Child,” she went on to add, “don’t believe too much in this French Revolution. What did you say was its slogan: Equality, Fraternity, Liberty? If that were all true, Child, then what would be the position of the Dutch here in Java?”

I lay on my bed. Ibu Baldrun’s sons were asleep on a mat on the floor in a cloud of mosquito-repellent smoke. I gave thanks that I had a mother who was so strong and firm in her beliefs and her thoughts. She was a Javanese woman and she had her own wisdom. And I would never be able to marry a woman like her. Forgive me, Mother. I am traveling another path and will make a different choice. I will write a long letter, in Javanese, to you, my mother. I couldn’t do it face to face. You are right, Mother, you are dealing with a son whom you no longer know, except for his name….

But it is not a punishment, Mother, it isn’t, Mother, truly it isn’t.

A
nd it did indeed turn out that Engineer H. van Kollewijn decided to leave Semarang and travel by train to Mayong. In Mayong, he was met by the Jepara Regency Carriage, which took him to town.

As the carriage slowly entered the town, children lining the streets shouted “Long life! Long life!” and waved the Dutch flags. The rotund member of parliament and the fat assistant resident of Jepara-Rembang occasionally acknowledged the children with a nod and gave them a little wave. The carriage entered the Regency of Jepara. And the penembrama—the traditional welcome for VIPs, with music and singing—was canceled.

A newspaper article explained:

A sensation for the turn of the century! I think the Javanese will remember that event for a long time to come. And it would be the source of untold stories and rumors and guesses. But we know for sure what happened. The member of parliament offered her the opportunity to continue her studies in the Netherlands. And this offer occupied the thoughts of all those Javanese who knew about it. But that was all that they could do—think about it.

I wasn’t so impressed by his offer. What impressed me more was this girl’s initiative. Perhaps it was her way of denying the reality of her situation. Just like me. And what kind of initiative!

This girl, hemmed in by the Residency walls, imprisoned by the walls of custom, locked away in nubile seclusion, had given to the local Dutch assistant resident a wedding gift for Queen Wilhelmina. And the gift then began its journey. First of all, from Jepara to Betawi. From the assistant resident to Governor-General Rosenboom. It was a teak box carved by Jepara’s greatest craftsman, Pak Singo.

From the governor-general’s hands, the box crossed the ocean to the minister of colonies. And in the hands of the honorable minister, the box was presented to Her Majesty at her wedding reception. It was Engineer van Kollewijn’s people who made so much of this. And people were made to understand that Dutch and European carving was no match for the teak carving of Jepara’s Pak Singo. Then people started to talk about how wonderful it would be if the queen’s throne and all the palace’s furniture were carved in the Jepara style. Javanese pride swelled with pleasure, caressed and massaged by this talk.

It wasn’t long before orders came flowing in to the Jepara maiden. And it wasn’t long either before the craftsmen of Jepara
went from being poverty-stricken, miserable, and powerless to being honored, respected, wealthy, and sought after. The girl had brought energy and life where before there was dejection. She had brought change. She had wiped away a spot of poverty, of powerlessness.

But it’s not my intention to note down all this kind of thing. There’s something else—about Engineer van Kollewijn again. This god, who wants to pay back the Indies the debt it is owed, moved everyone with his compassionate and just heart. His fiery tongue had lashed out against the government for wrongly hanging somebody—a Chinese from Cibinong. The victim had already lain for ages as a pile of bones in his grave. The honorable member made an announcement: This man is innocent!

His Excellency’s name had not been raised to these new heights of honor for long before there was another report in the papers. He and van Heutsz had decided to make a brief visit to Padang to watch a public multiple hanging. So it turned out that he had an interest in hanging people after all. But then it was only criminals that were hanged. People said: Criminals—so what? Aren’t they just pimples on the asshole of the
raja
?

Who was the first to say this? How would I know? But the fiery tongue, and divinity, of Engineer van Kollewijn—in my eyes nothing was left of them but a bundle of bones, just like the Chinese man from Cibinong….

I had been a student for nine months. The boredom was hardly bearable anymore.

Then one afternoon I was sitting in the library filling in time and I started flicking through the
Government Gazette.
Who would read the
Government Gazette
except someone who was bored? Its cover was in good condition. You could still smell the glue. And I read: “…the registration of the establishment in 1900 of an organization of Chinese subjects of the Indies to be called Tiong Hoa Hwee Koan…” Huh! what’s the use of publishing useless information like that in the
Government Gazette
? As I reflected on this, I remembered my Chinese friend. Yes, he was dead now. But, I asked myself, did he have any connection with this Tiong Hoa Hwee Koan organization? Then there was something else, the task he’d given me—a letter for…ah, what was the name?

Conscious once again of the promise I had made back in Surabaya, I left the library and bought all the Malay-Chinese papers
that I could find. I soon found more reports about the organization. This wasn’t surprising because it was considered to be the first modern social or political organization registered by the government in the Indies. It had established its own primary school with its own curriculum. The children would be educated to be modern Chinese able to continue their studies back in China or anywhere else in the world. They did not teach Dutch, only Mandarin and English. They also listed the names of the teachers. And the English teacher’s name was Ang San Mei.

It seemed that the God of Luck was smiling upon me. Ang San Mei was the name of the person I had to seek out.

The following Sunday, I set off to find this person. I rode off on my bicycle early in the morning. In my pocket was my friend’s letter. This person would no doubt be an interesting acquaintance. Perhaps this person would also be a
sinkeh
, unable to speak either Malay or Dutch, let alone Javanese.

I had an address for a house located in one of the small alleys of Betawi. I was just entering the filthy and dirty alley when a Chinese girl emerged out of the alleyway’s mouth. She was slim, almost skinny, pretty, slit-eyed, and pale. She walked quickly without looking about. She looked straight ahead as she went along. My own neck also suddenly became stiff.

My eyes reached out to grasp her beauty. I climbed down off my bike. I stopped. She passed me and my head swiveled around to watch her. The hinge hadn’t rusted. God and all creation seemed to whisper to me—admire her beauty, her eyes, the way she walks. And once again I became enthralled by the allure of a woman! Why were her lips so pale? And how silken and clear was her skin, as if you could see right through it!

I wanted to chase after her and introduce myself. No! I knew that her people generally looked down upon Natives. We just passed in the lane, that’s all.

I walked my bicycle through the lane. I felt like a horse suddenly burdened with a fully loaded cart. That woman was so pretty, so interesting. Her strange narrow eyes just made her more exciting.

I found the address. It was a tiny bamboo place, stuck tightly in between two others. Did she come from this place? Her beauty was such a frail beauty. Could such a disgusting environment as this produce someone so lovely? Ah, why won’t that image of the white-gowned Chinese girl disappear from my mind?

A Chinese woman, wearing black pants, a black blouse, and tiny black shoes, shuffled out to greet me. Her Malay was strange and barely understandable. Her voice was loud and jarring.

“Mr. Ang San Mei?” she repeated my question. “There is no Mr. Ang San Mei here.”

“Do you know where I can find him?”

“Don’t know. There is Ang San Mei here, but not Mister. She Mistress Ang.” She looked at me with suspicious eyes, obviously wishing that I had never arrived. And obviously hoping that the conversation would end there.

So Ang San Mei was a woman. Mistress Ang.

The old woman didn’t invite me inside, let alone offer a chair. And she didn’t ask any questions either. I tried to find a way to continue the conversation. She didn’t understand. And when she spoke, I didn’t understand. Because I never thought I would become a mute, I hadn’t studied sign language. Neither had she. So all we could do was stand there and stare at each other. Good God! She’d been here who knows how many years and still couldn’t speak Malay!

I took out the envelope, which had a message written in Chinese on the outside. For Ang San Mei. She couldn’t read. Illiterate to the marrow of her bones. She took the letter from my hand and went inside and didn’t come out again. Oh, no! And what about me? Was I supposed just to turn around and leave without a good-bye or anything?

I was still stunned as I stood there holding my beautiful bike. The foul stench from the drains was already starting to make its presence felt. I picked up my bike and started to maneuver it around in the narrow alley. It scraped a fence. When I turned around, the pretty narrow-eyed girl was there in front of me. Now it wasn’t my neck but hers that seemed fixed in its place by a rusted hinge. I nodded as I left the front yard. I glanced back and saw her go inside. So she was Ang San Mei. I had no reason to go back. I kept walking my bike. I slowed down. Surely something would happen.

Yes, from behind me came shouts.

“Mista, Mista, kum beck, pliiiiiiiis!”

I stopped. I wasn’t wrong. English! I turned around and she waved to me to come. As if hypnotized, I picked up my bike and walked toward her, step by step. Her slender arm was held out
to greet me. Her voice sounded so beautiful as she spoke in English: “I’m Ang San Mei. I’ve been waiting for you for so long.”

’You’ve been waiting long, miss?’ I asked.

“You’re Mr. Minke, aren’t you?”

Her hand was still in mine, and she wasn’t objecting.

“Yes, that’s right. It’s been very difficult for me to get a chance to look for Miss Ang.”

She politely withdrew her hand and invited me inside.

The veranda was very narrow, about five feet. There was nothing but an old bamboo bench. After she dusted it, we both sat down.

“I felt it when we passed earlier that you were the one I’d been waiting for. So I came straight back. Why has it taken you so long to come, especially as I do not have your address?” Her English was fluent and very correct.

I started to tell her all about how busy I had been. She believed me.

“Thank you for the protection you and your family gave to my late friend, though I am sure he also expressed his gratitude to you.”

I observed her pale thin lips and her brilliant white teeth. I looked at her feet—they hadn’t been bound.

“Why are you looking at my feet?”

“Oh, nothing, it doesn’t matter.”

“It’s only by accident that my feet have escaped their humiliation.”

“Yes, I’m sorry, miss, forgive me. A Chinese woman with feet like you, miss, it means that you haven’t been brought up in the traditional way.”