Footsteps (43 page)

“Who is that coming up to me, surprising me like that?”

“It is I, Mother, Mother’s favorite son.”

She held my destar with her two hands and turned my face to hers.

“Greetings, my son. Mother feels she has received a blessing and inspiration from your arrival.”

“Forgive me, Mother, for not sending word.”

“You came by train?”

“Yes, Mother.”

“Bathe first.”

I went off to bathe. When I came out of the bathroom, all fresh and neat, my younger brother and sister were waiting for me to say hello.

“Eh, you all,” I said. “Come on over here, don’t just stand there. Ah, and you, when do you marry?”

“Ah, you, my brother, you’ve just arrived and already teasing.”

“But this means I’m in favor of it, or do I have to go out and find someone for you?” I smiled.

She looked away and ran off, embarrassed.

“And you, how are you doing at school?”

“Thank you for your interest, Brother. I am progressing.”

I left them to go and see Mother.

Mother waved to me that I should sit. There was a little tobacco protruding from the corner of her mouth. She looked older. There were more gray hairs than white.

“I’ve been thinking about you all this time, Child, all this time, about you. Are you happy now?”

“Yes, thank you, Mother.”

“Your voice is bright and clear now, not like the last time we met. Thanks be to God, Child. Around here everyone is talking about you. You’re a journalist, they say, putting out thousands of newspapers, going all over Java, all with your name on them. That’s good, Child. You wanted to be a doctor, but it didn’t happen. Then you wanted to be a dalang and that didn’t happen either. Now you are a journalist. Is that something like a trader, Child?”

“More or less the same, Mother.”

“So no one bows down to you except your servants?”

“And my servants do not bow down to me either, Mother.”

“So there is no one that you rule over, Child?”

“No one, Mother.”

“So are you doing that which is the task of a
sudra
or a
brahman
?”

“Both at the same time, Mother, serving others and also teaching through my newspaper.”

“You will not regret that you did not become a
ksatria
?” “No, Mother, never.”

“Regret is a torture, Child. Try not to make any more wrong choices. Do you have any more ambitions, Child?”

“Well, I have lost all desire to be a doctor. But I still wish to be a dalang, Mother. Please forgive me.”

“There is too much that you desire, Child. And you want to be a dalang as well. Do you know enough stories yet?”

“I still lack one, Mother.” I told her of my ideas about the multiracial nature of the Indies, that I wanted to build an organization that reflected that reality, but that I had not yet found the means for unifying the peoples. I also told her about the merchant, Thamrin Mohammed Thabrie, and about the power of the Chinese businesses that had been able to destroy the big European firms, using that power available to the weak, the boycott.

“So you do not yet have all the stories that you need.”

“Give me a sign, Mother, and your blessings.”

“You know better than I what you need, Child, and I give my blessings. Be somebody who is good.”

“A thousand times thank you, Mother.”

“Have you ever heard the
kedasih
bird singing to its fellows?”

“I have, Mother.”

“And the thrush also?”

“Yes, Mother.”

“They are always singing to each other. Sometimes they are without a friend, because they’ve been injured or in an accident, and they cry out for their lost friend. Sometimes their companion will never answer again. Whenever you hear the lamenting of a kedasih or a thrush and there is no answer, it breaks your heart, and you realize how lonely life can be. And you, Child, do not become like a kedasih who sings alone, only knowing laments. You need not make everyone feel pity for you like that. There was one kedasih who sat in the old kapok tree outside and called out and called out, every two hours. It sang its call to its friend over and over again. Yes, Child, every morning. For two months. Then it was never heard again. It never returned to sit on the
branches of that tree again. It was never seen around here again. It was heartbreaking, Child.”

“Mother told me about that kedasih, Mother.”

“So you remember. Don’t become a kedasih that does not sing, that does not make music. Don’t become a dalang that has no stories. A dalang can survive without puppets, Child, but not without stories.…”

I left B—– with my spirits refreshed, with my mother’s

blessings, and with an instruction—don’t end up singing alone in your own house. At the very least there should be a wife who can answer your music, the music of your heart.

And in my bag I carried Haji Moeloek’s manuscript. I read it during my journey and it invigorated my thoughts, my heart.

And there was one more thing that I was taking home—the knowledge that the merchants of Jogja and Solo, though renowned for their miserliness, were willing to donate money to help advance our society, yes, for an organization that would bring us progress in the days ahead.

And there was one name that shone out brilliantly in the Boedi Oetomo—that of the secretary, Mas Ngabehi Dwidjosewojo.

T
here was a pile of letters waiting for me at the
Medan
office in Bandung. Three of them were from the Princess of Kasiruta. Her palace Dutch gave the impression that she was not used to writing letters. Or that she had been brought up to be always courtly and formal.

She had sent me three letters while I was away. She wanted to meet me. Perhaps she wanted to know more about boycotts. Perhaps there was something else in her heart.

A messenger delivered my reply to her.

Not a second after the messenger left, a thickset youth appeared before me, about an inch shorter than I was. He wore a buttoned-up blouse, a tightly woven sarong and a very neat destar. He might have been a district level priyayi. But a closer examination, especially of his movements, revealed that he was a village boy who was wearing his very best clothes.

“Your servant’s name is Marko, Ndoro,” he said with his head bowed and his hands clasped in obeisance. “If Ndoro is willing to accept me…I have come to serve.”

“Heh, Marko. I’ve been waiting for you a long time now.
Come over here closer. Lift your chin up, straighten up your chest. A fighter doesn’t go about bowed down like that.”

He smiled and lifted up his chin. His face shone. His eyes were sharp and bright. More than that—he was handsome.

I stood up, went over to him, and tried to strike him in the face. He ducked, jerking his head back. I lifted my leg to kick him in the stomach, and he jumped away.

It didn’t seem that Wardi had chosen wrongly. He could duck and swerve beautifully as if he were dancing without moving away from where he stood. Perhaps because I hadn’t practiced for a long time I quickly tired myself out doing this, and I still couldn’t hit him. I stopped. I stood panting in front of him.

“Good,” I said. Without asking where he came from or where he lived, I gave him my first order. “Make sure the office is cleaned every day.”

A few minutes later he was no longer the district priyayi. His blouse and sarong were off, so too his slippers, which he probably didn’t own anyway. Now he was wearing a yellow cotton shirt and trousers—just like any villager come to town. He went skillfully about cleaning the walls, the furniture, and the floor.

“What else, Ndoro?”

“Get dressed again, and come and see me.”

I had just got through one more letter and he was before me again. Without hesitation he sat down.

“This office must never look dirty.”

“I am your servant, Ndoro.”

“Call me Tuan. And speak Malay. Do you know Malay?”

“Yes, Tuan.”

“Your job is to look after security here. Any other work will be on my orders alone. Where did you meet Wardi?”

“Which one is Ndoro Wardi?”

“Stupid! The one who brought you here.”

“I don’t know his name yet. I only know Sandiman.”

“Have you known him long?”

“I’ve been traveling around with him for these last three months.”

“Can you read and write?”

“Javanese, Tuan, in Latin and Arabic script.”

I threw him a page from
Medan
and told him to read it aloud. He read out a passage on the Boedi Oetomo congress. It was clear from the way he read that he understood very well
what he was reading, although his
d
and
b
still had a heavy Javanese accent.

“So what is your opinion of this article?”

“The language isn’t quite right, Tuan.”

“Where did you go to school?”

“I taught myself, Tuan.”

“You’ve never been to school?”

“Just village school, Tuan.”

“Did you graduate?”

“Yes, Tuan. I have my diploma here with me, if you want to see it!”

At that moment the Princess entered, accompanied by her maid. I stood and told Marko to leave. In a leap he was out of the office.

“Good afternoon, Princess. Please be seated.”

She was wearing silk. She carried in her hand a yellow umbrella, decorated with pictures of flowers and made from silk. She carried herself freely and confidently, with no sense of shyness. Her maid waited for her outside the office. She hung the umbrella on the arm of the chair and sighed.

She was tall and slender and her skin was an attractive ebony color. For a second she reminded me of
The Flower of the Century’s End
except for her color. Perhaps she had Portuguese blood.

“And so what about this boycott matter, Tuan?” she asked in Dutch, very politely.

“You really need to know, Princess?”

“I will take the idea back to Kasiruta,” she answered.

I studied her rather narrow face and her pointed profile.

“What use will it be for you in Kasiruta?” She smiled and I didn’t understand why. “It will be printed in a few more days,” I said.

“That is why I have come to see you, Meneer. They have forbidden me.”

“Who are they?”

“The assistant resident of Priangan.”

“The assistant resident?” Suddenly I remembered Mir’s letter asking whether it was true a raja from the Moluccas had been exiled to Sukabumi or Cianjur.

“Princess has the appearance of someone from India.”

She smiled and gazed at me without embarrassment. It was
only when I started to study her face and figure that she turned away, embarrassed.

“Is Princess living at Sukabumi with her family?”

“Yes.”

“But Princess is in Bandung.”

“Not for long, for sure. My scholarship will expire when I graduate and then I will join my family. At the moment I am trying to get permission to return to Kasiruta. The assistant resident has rejected my request three times now. So I have come to you to ask for help. Whatever else is the case, it was not I who was exiled.”

“Please wait a minute,” I said. I went to fetch Frischboten. But he was out. “Our lawyer is out at the moment. Now tell me just what were the reasons given by the assistant resident of Priangan for not granting your request.”

“He just said: It’s a great pity, miss, but it just isn’t possible at the moment. Just that, nothing more.”

“Very well. I will go and see the assistant resident.”

“Thank you very much, Meneer.”

“How long has Princess been in Priangan?”

“Three years. Ever since my graduation from primary school.”

It almost came out of my mouth—it will be two more years before you are allowed to return to the land of your birth. But I didn’t have the heart to tell her. And it was only a guess anyway. It was said that there were only two terms of exile in the Indies—five years or forever.

“Can Princess speak Sundanese?”

“During these three years I have learned only to speak it.”

“Can Princess speak Malay?”

“Of course. School Malay as well as the Malay of society.”

“And why do you want to take my writings about the boycott back to Kasiruta?”

She now looked at me with suspicion in her eyes. Her hands seemed to grope for the umbrella hung on the arm of her chair. The idea of taking back the material on the boycott was no doubt her family’s idea, and she knew the purpose quite well.

Suddenly she changed the subject: “And what if the assistant resident still refuses?”

“Would Princess then permit me to raise this matter with His Excellency the governor-general?”

“People say that it is indeed only you who are able to do that.”

“And if, for example, permission is refused, then won’t Princess lose her faith in me?”

“Just for you to ask is enough to put me in your debt, Meneer, and it will never be forgotten.”

“Could you tell me how it is that people are saying that it is only I who can bring this matter to the governor-general’s attention?”

“Forgive me, Meneer, but it is said, I don’t know whether truly or falsely, that you are his favorite.”

These rumors had long been irritating me. What could I do; they were spreading farther and farther each day. I told her the truth of the matter, that the rumors were not true.

The conversation ranged over many things. It was good to talk with a girl who was confident, free, and dared to voice her opinions. And as a woman she was also perfect—her face, her breasts, her waist and hips, her thighs and legs, all her body. She was completely in control of herself. It was clear she had a great deal of self-respect. Perhaps she had received some kind of good, strict European education. European ways seemed to have become a part of her character. But that was just a first impression.

And my old nature began to reassert itself! Ah, you philogynist, you connoisseur of female beauty! Mother, I have heard your message. I will wed this flower of womankind.

“But you mustn’t hope that you will be able to return to Kasiruta in the near future, Princess. You can speak Sundanese and Malay. Would you be willing to help me?”