Footsteps (61 page)

He spoke fluently, quickly, and there was not the slightest hint of Malay influence on his Dutch. And I had to be patient and wait to find out what it was that he really wanted. He had placed his cane between his legs. His face, which was totally clean-shaven, seemed tanned. Perhaps he spent a lot of time outdoors. Perhaps he was a plantation employee.

“When do you think Haji Moeloek’s story will finish?”

“Perhaps another six or eight months.”

“That’s quite a thick book for something in Malay.”

“It seems that you are very interested in these matters.”

“I am among those who admire very much the ability to put down thoughts and feelings in writing, sir. If he had written his story in Government Malay, as in Francis’s
Nyai Dasima
, I don’t think it would have been so alive.”

“So you do not approve of Government Malay?”

“It’s not that. No one speaks in Government Malay, not even the government. That’s why I think you, sir, are absolutely correct in continuing to use living Malay in
Medan.
”

“Thank you, Meneer Pangemanann with two n’s.”

“Actually, sir, I am here for a specific reason. Perhaps it is not important for you, but it is for me.”

Aha, now I will learn what he’s here for. I listened, but with heightened vigilance. Who knows, perhaps he was a member of the Indo gang.

“In my spare time I too like to write stories, Meneer, in Malay, but in school Malay, Government Malay.”

So he is a government man, I thought, and: “Aha!” I cried, “and where have they been published?”

“Nowhere, Meneer. I’ve always held back, all these years. I have never felt satisfied with what I’ve written. There is just one novel left that I have kept.”

“Why have you held back? Why haven’t you been satisfied?”

“It’s not just that. I was ashamed to publish them because of Francis, Meneer. I knew him all his life, that king of storytelling! The Will of God! He has gone on before me. Now there is a new king of storytelling. From studying its style and vocabulary, as well as its subject matter, it is clear that the
Tale
was not written by you.”

“Of course not.’

“It’s like this, Meneer. When the
Tale
is finished, is it possible that you could publish my story? Although it is not as great as Haji Moeloek’s.”

“It’s difficult to give such a promise.”

“Of course. I can understand that. You haven’t studied my manuscript yet. You have to read it and consider it properly before you make a decision.”

“Did you bring the manuscript?”

“I will bring it to you in Bandung later.”

“What is it about, if I may ask?”

“It is about Pitung the bandit, Meneer.”

“You mean it’s a lenong story?”

“It’s an attempt to improve lenong.”

“Improve it? How can you do that when the lenong actors themselves can’t read or write? Yes, Francis tried to improve on the lenong story of
Nyai Dasima.
And he didn’t succeed either.”

“Of course, while the lenong actors themselves cannot read, any attempt to improve the lenong repertoire will not succeed. Nevertheless, the two of us have tried to do it.”

“It sounds very interesting. And meeting another writer is also always interesting. Even more so reading his work. I am looking forward to seeing it.”

He looked very pleased. Then suddenly he changed the subject: “Meneer, it is very worrying hearing all these reports about the Knijpers. Very worrying. They say they have reappeared again as the TAI. Now there is a new group of these troublemakers, Meneer, calling themselves De Zweep, the Whip. They say it’s the same people as before, but a smaller and tighter group this time. Just a couple of score of people. And with more specific targets this time too.”

“Very interesting,” I commented.

“No, not interesting at all.”

“Whom do you think they will target?”

“How would I know, Meneer? People they don’t like, I suppose.”

“And no doubt it will be like before. None of them will be arrested by the police, or if they are, they will be released even before they get to the police station.”

“Could be, too. Ah, it’s already dark. I must go. Please excuse me. I will visit you in a few days’ time in Bandung.” He stood up, held out his hand and said “Good evening,” then strode calmly out of our grounds.

That night I studied all the reports we had from the sugar regions, both reports from the branches and letters from readers. I rushed off an article about how justice was implemented there. This will be the first shot fired at the Syndicate.

The article itself didn’t discuss the most important issues. It just reported to those people who knew nothing at all about life in the sugar areas what happened to children who took cane from the mills, how they were maltreated by the plantation officials. They would be detained until their parents came and paid a fine
of one hundred cents. Their parents’ wage, if they worked in the sugar plantations, would be seventy cents at the very most. But it wasn’t the fine itself so much that signaled the injustice but the fact that the children took the cane out of hunger and need for sugar, took cane grown on the land of their own ancestors, sometimes even from their own parents’ land, land they had been forced to rent to the mill.

I hadn’t quite finished writing when Princess called me in for dinner. She asked then: “Who was that, Mas?”

“Pangemanann with two
n
’s,” I answered.

“I didn’t like him from the moment I saw him. Even the spelling of his name is strange, with two
n’s.
What did he want? Was he making threats?”

“I think that was what he was here for. Now they’re called the Zweep.”

“If they bother us again, I will shoot them again.”

“Is that necessary yet?”

“Rather than let them get in first.”

She was talking out of anger and frustration.

Three days later, my article touching upon the power of Sugar was published. And on that day too, just a few hours after publication, Pangemanann was sitting at my desk. He had his manuscript
Si Pitung
with him. I observed him closely. I could see him furtively glance down at an envelope that was lying on my table. Its corners were marked with red stripes.

It was possible he recognized the letter. With a somewhat piercing look from his eyes, he handed over his manuscript, saying politely: “I hope you like this and will decide to publish it.”

“Do you have a copy at home?”

“Unfortunately, no, Meneer. But I know it will be safe in your hands.” He stole another glance at the envelope on the desk, then returned to watching me.

I returned his gaze with a patient smile. The letter was a threat from the Zweep that they would move against me if I did not withdraw the article about the cane fines and the maltreatment of the children who were hungry and did not have enough sugar.
Medan
was supposed to explain that the article wasn’t serious and the things described in it never happened. At the bottom were the words De Zweep, and there was a signature. The name seemed European.

I thought that Pangemanann was going to discuss the letter, but it didn’t happen. Then he suddenly turned the conversation: “It seems you are really determined.”

“There is nothing to be afraid of, is there, Meneer? What is it that we should be afraid of?”

“I mean it seems that you are very determined and committed in carrying out your work. Committed people must be respected. That is why I respect you.”

“And where do you see this determination in me, Meneer?”

“In your attitude.”

“It appears that you seem to see some danger ahead of me. Or perhaps it is you yourself, Meneer, that is the danger to me?” I joked.

He let out a rather indecent laugh. He wasn’t carrying his cane this time. He wore clean white clothes but now his shoes were brown. As before he wore no hat, and his rather golden hair—there was no gray at all—shone with hair oil.

“I like the way you talk, Meneer. Bold. Sharp. No mincing words or suchlike.”

“You are a true man of letters,” I said, praising him, “taking so much notice of every word spoken and how they are spoken.”

“Yes, it is a hobby of mine. Could I have a receipt for my manuscript? I must go. I have other appointments.”

I made him out a receipt. He took it and excused himself, leaving behind the words: “May you have success, Meneer.”

I didn’t escort him to the door. And I began to examine the day’s mail. At that moment I heard a voice thundering before me: “Are you withdrawing the article or not?”

I jumped up. Before me there stood three Indos, each one hiding his hands behind his back. At the front was someone I had known since the last century—Robert Suurhof.

Before I could answer, I heard a cracking sound. My vision went black. I saw stars everywhere. My face and body felt the lash of whips again and again. My mouth was hit. I tasted a salty taste. Blood.

I don’t know how many times I felt those lashes. I felt my body fall, after staggering for a moment, crashing into the arms of the chair, then…nothing. All I could hear was the voice inside me shouting: “No! No! I will not withdraw it!”

As I regained consciousness I heard voices about me. I couldn’t tell whom they belonged to. Perhaps Suurhof and his
friends. I tried harder to tell. It was Hendrik’s voice that I heard first: “How are his eyes, Doctor? They’re not damaged, are they?”

“They’ll need care for quite a while.”

I tried to speak. But my lips refused my orders to move. My hand seemed to move by itself, groping for my lips. I had no lips. All I could feel were wet bandages. And now I could smell medicines.

“Minke!” I recognized Mir’s cry.

I moved my hand, and I felt it grasped and caressed by a smooth palm. I felt the slipperiness of a metal ring. There wasn’t a sliver of light that penetrated my vision. My eyes were also covered with bandages.

“Tuan.” I heard Marko’s voice. “Everything happened so quickly. I was in the print shop. Sandiman heard the noise first. He came up to the office. The attack was already under way. He grabbed a typesetter’s hammer and threw it at them. He got one in the shoulder. They fled. Sandiman went after them. But they had horses waiting and escaped on them.”

I gave a weak nod, accepting his request for forgiveness. I moved my hand again and my fingers indicated they wanted pencil and paper. As soon as someone put them in my hand, I wrote these words: “Continue with all our work. Study all the reports from the sugar regions. If they seem to be more or less accurate, then publish them. Watch security. Take me to Buitenzorg.”

“And this incident, Minke, are you going to remain silent about it?” asked Hendrik. “I don’t think it is right that we keep quiet about it. We should begin now.”

“Yes, we will now begin publicizing this terror,” I wrote. “But keep a good watch on security. And you too, Hendrik, Mir, be careful.”

“Thank you, Minke.”

Mir and Sandiman took me by taxi to Buitenzorg. Mir sat with me in the back. Sandiman rode in front with the driver.

“Is the driver an Indo?” I wrote on a piece of paper.

“Yes,” whispered Mir in the bandage that covered my ear.

“Be careful, Mir,” I wrote again.

“Don’t worry,” she whispered, then kissed the part of my face that was not bandaged. “Sandiman is armed.”

She spoke no more, but just caressed my hand.

As we journeyed along I thought of my mother, and Mama and Princess, three extraordinary women whom I had met during
my life. Then I saw Ang San Mei, pale, skinny, and narrow-eyed. It was as if she came to me at that moment, knowing the helpless state I was in, as helpless and powerless as a worm. And I thought I heard her whisper: As long as you realize, Minke, this is just the beginning. And I nodded that I understood. Then I saw Khouw Ah Soe waving to me and then suddenly he vanished. But SDI had already announced itself to the world. They had written that the Indies bourgeoisie is beginning to rise. And now its dalang lay bruised and beaten in the care of a European woman.

Suddenly my heart started thumping. The idea that the Syndicate would get a laugh out of all this made me furious. And I couldn’t picture them in my mind—they were abstract and anonymous.

“Your pulse has got faster, Minke. What are you thinking about?”

I shook my head.

I felt the taxi come to a stop. We must be in the grounds of the house in Buitenzorg.

Mir led me out of the car and up the steps.

“Princess! Princess!” Mir cried out.

It wasn’t long before I heard running footsteps and cries: “Mas, what has happened? Why are you like this?”

I felt her hand take mine and she led me into the room.

“He can’t speak yet, Princess. And he can’t use his eyes yet either. It was the Zweep.”

“The Zweep,” Princess whispered into the bandage over my ear. “I should have shot that Pangemanann.”

“Don’t be a hothead, Princess.”

“I know that one day I will have to shoot them.”

“Don’t think about such things, Princess, for God’s sake. You’ll just make him worried and anxious,” said Mir.

They led me onto my bed.

I could hear Sandiman giving orders to the men from Banten. Nobody was allowed on the grounds, except with the permission of Princess. Anyone who did come in had to be taught a lesson so that they understood next time.

That afternoon Hendrik arrived, with the nanny who looked after the baby. He came straight to me and reported that everything had been done as ordered. He also passed on a message to Sandiman to go back to the office in Bandung as soon as he could.

Reports of the attack, my wife told me, were published in
some of the Betawi and Bandung papers, mentioning the names of the attackers. The SDI was moving into action and demanding revenge. I wrote a message to the Central Leadership that there should be no action taken against the Zweep. They were just the instruments of greater forces. We must not be sidetracked from our challenge to Sugar. Victory in the struggle against Sugar was the most important thing.

Hendrik Frischboten had also been at work. The attackers had been detained and would be put on trial as soon as I was well.