The Hidden Force (18 page)

L
ABUWANGI REVIVED
. There was almost unanimous agreement that they should no longer talk about the strange things to people from elsewhere, since although their scepticism in this matter was so forgivable, the people of Labuwangi believed. The provincial town, after the mystical pressure under which it had been for those unforgettable weeks, came back to life. As if to shake off all obsession, party succeeded party, ball succeeded ball, play followed concert: everyone opened up their houses to celebrate and have fun and seek some ordinary pursuits after the
unbelievable
nightmare. The people, so accustomed to a normal and comprehensible life, the ample and material comfort of the Indies—to a good table, cold drinks, wide beds, spacious houses, to earning and spending money: all the physical luxury of the Westerner in the East—such people breathed a sigh of relief, and shrugged off the nightmare and the belief in the strange happenings. If it was ever still talked of, it was generally called incomprehensible mumbo-jumbo, in imitation of the Commissioner. Mumbo-jumbo concocted by the Prince, since it was certain that he’d had a hand in it. It was certain, too, that the Commissioner had threatened him,
and his mother, with fearful consequences if the strange
happenings
did not cease. And it was certain that subsequently order had been restored to ordinary life. Mumbo-jumbo then. People were now ashamed of their credulity, their fear, and for having shuddered at what had seemed mysterious and was nothing but clever mumbo-jumbo. And people
wanted
to be cheerful and there was one party after another.

In this intoxicating atmosphere, Léonie forgot her
annoyance
at being called back by Van Oudijck. And she too
wanted
to forget the vermilion defiling of her body. But there was still a residue of fear in her. She now bathed early in the
afternoon
, at four-thirty, in the newly built bathroom. Her second bath was still the cause of some trepidation. And now Theo had a position in Surabaya, she gradually detached herself, partly out of fear. She could not shake off the thought that their idyll had threatened to punish them both, mother and son, for bringing shame on the parental home. The romantic side of her perverse imagination, her pink fantasies full of cherubs, Cupids, gave this idea—inspired by alarm—too precious a tragic hue not to hold on to it, whatever Theo said. She’d had enough. And it drove him to distraction, since he was mad about her; he could not forget the infamous pleasure he had experienced in her arms. But she held her ground steadfastly, and told him about her fear and said she was certain that the ghosts would return if they made love, he and his father’s wife. Her words made him apoplectic on the occasional Sunday that he spent at Labuwangi: furious at her refusal, her newly assumed maternal persona, and
furious because he knew that she saw a lot of Addy de Luce and often stayed at Pajaram. At the parties, Addy danced with her; at the concerts he hung over her chair in the improvised commissioner’s box. True, he was not faithful to her, since it was not in his nature to love only one woman—he bestowed his favours far and wide—but still he was as faithful to her as he possibly could be. She felt a more lasting passion for him than she had ever felt before; and this passion roused her from her usual passive indifference. Often in company, though boring, dreary, she would be enthroned in the glow of her white beauty, like a smiling idol, the languor of the Indies years gradually flowing into her blood, until her
movements
had taken on that indifferent sloth for everything but caresses and love; her voice, the drawling accent used for any word that was not a word of passion. Under the flame that emanated from Addy and surrounded her, she transformed into a younger woman, more lively in company, more
cheerful
, flattered by the continuing attentions of the young man who had turned all the girls’ heads. And she delighted in dominating him as far as possible, to the regret of all the girls and especially of Doddy. In her passion she also took a spiteful delight in teasing, just for the sake of it: it gave her an exquisite pleasure, and—for the first time, since she had always been very careful—she made her husband jealous, made Theo jealous, Doddy jealous: she made all the young women and girls jealous. And there she stood above them all, as the Commissioner’s wife, she was superior to them all. If on a particular evening she had gone too far, she delighted
in winning back, with a smile or a word, the affection she had forfeited by her flirtatiousness. And strangely enough, she succeeded. The moment people saw her, the moment she spoke, smiled and
made a point of
being nice, she regained everything, people forgave her everything. Even Eva was won over by the strange charm of this woman, who was not witty, not intelligent, who became scarcely any more cheerful when roused from her dreary lethargy, and who won people over only through the lines of her body, the shape of her face, the look in her strange eyes—calm and yet full of hidden passion—and who was aware of her attraction, having noted its effect since childhood. That attraction together with her indifference was her strength. Anything to do with fate seemed to bounce off her. Although it had approached her with strange magic, until she thought that a punishment would descend on her, it had drifted away. But she heeded the warning. She no longer wanted Theo, and henceforth she treated him like a mother. It enraged him, especially at these parties, now that she was younger, more cheerful and more seductive.

His passion for her began to turn to hate. He hated her now, with all the instinct of a Eurasian, which—for all his white skin—is what he was. He was more his mother’s son than his father’s. Oh, he hated her now, because he had felt his fear of punishment for an instant, and now he had forgotten everything. And his aim was to do her harm. How, he did not yet know, but he wanted to do her harm, so that she felt pain and sorrow. Pondering on this gave his small, murky soul a
satanic sombreness. Although he didn’t think about it, he felt unconsciously that she was virtually invulnerable, and even that she secretly revelled in that invulnerability, and it made her more shameless and more indifferent every day. She was off to stay at Pajaram at every moment, on any pretext. The anonymous letters, which Van Oudijck still frequently gave her to read, no longer upset her; she became used to them. She returned them to him without a word: occasionally she even forgot about them and left them lying about on the back veranda. Once Theo read them there. He didn’t know in what sudden burst of lucidity, but he suddenly thought he recognized certain letters, certain strokes. He remembered the cottage in the native quarter in Pajaram—made half of bamboo and half of paraffin crates—where he had visited si-Oudijck with Addy de Luce, and the papers that he had hastily gathered together with an Arab. He vaguely
remembered
those same letters and strokes on a slip of paper on the floor. The blurred image flashed through his mind. But it was no more than a lightning bolt. His small, gloomy soul contained nothing but dull hate and murky calculation, but he was not clever enough to develop that calculation. He hated his father, from instinct and antipathy; his mother because she was a Eurasian; his stepmother because she no longer wanted him; he hated Addy, and for good measure he hated Doddy; he hated the world, because he had to work in it. He hated every job now that he had his office in Surabaya. But he was too lazy and insufficiently lucid to do any harm. He could not think of a way, however hard he tried, of harming
his father, Addy and Léonie. Everything in him was vague, murky, discontented, unclear. What he wanted was money and a beautiful wife. Apart from that, there was nothing in him but his dull gloom and the malaise of a fat, blond colonial. And his thoughts rambled dimly and impotently on.

Up to now Doddy had always been very fond of Léonie, instinctively. But now she could deny it no longer: what at first she had thought was coincidence—her mama and Addy always seeking each other out in the same smile of attraction, one of them tugging at the other from one end of the room to the other, as if irresistibly—was not coincidence at all! And she too now hated Mama; Mama with her beautiful calm, her sovereign indifference. Doddy’s own passionate nature clashed with that other nature of milky-white Creole lethargy, which only now at this late stage, simply because of the propitiousness of fate, dared let itself be carried away, unconditionally. She hated Mama and that hate resulted in scenes, scenes of nervous anger, the screaming anger of Doddy at the taunting calm of Mama’s indifference, on all kinds of petty differences of opinion: about a visit, a ride on horseback, a hot sauce, a dress that one of them liked and the other did not. Léonie enjoyed teasing Doddy, just for the sake of it. Doddy would try to cry on her daddy’s shoulder, but Van Oudijck refused to take her side, and said that she should have more respect for Mama. But once, when she came to him for consolation, and he admonished her for her walks with Addy, she screamed that Mama herself was in love with Addy. Van Oudijck was angry and shooed
her out of the room. But it all fitted together too well—the anonymous letters, his wife’s new flirtatiousness, Doddy’s accusation and what he had observed for himself at the recent parties—for him not to ponder and even brood on it. And now, once he started brooding and pondering about it, sudden memories flashed through his mind like bursts of lightning: of an unexpected visit; of a locked door; of a moving curtain; of a whispered word and a timidly averted glance. He combined all that and suddenly recalled those same subtle memories, linked to others from the past. It suddenly roused his jealousy, a man’s jealousy of his wife, whom he cherishes as his dearest possession. Jealousy rose in him like a gust of wind and blew through his concentration at work, confusing his thoughts as he sat working, making him suddenly leave his office while he was dealing with the court cases, to search Léonie’s room, lift up a curtain, even look under the bed. Now he no longer allowed her to stay at Pajaram, ostensibly because he did not wish to raise the hopes of the De Luces that Addy would ever marry Doddy. Because he did not dare to talk to Léonie about his jealousy… He could not contemplate Addy ever marrying Doddy. Though his daughter had Indies blood in her veins, he wanted a full-blooded European as a son-in-law. He hated anything to do with mixed race. He hated the De Luces, and the whole native Indies’ quasi-royal tradition of their Pajaram. He hated their gambling, their
consorting
with all kinds of Javanese chiefs: people whom as an official he gave their due, but apart from that regarded as
necessary tools of government policy. He hated all their pretensions to be an old Indies family, and he hated Addy: a young man, supposedly employed in the factory, but who did nothing except chase after anything in skirts. As an older, industrious man, he found such a life insufferable. So Léonie would have to forgo Pajaram, but in the mornings she simply went to Mrs Van Does, and in her little house she met Addy, while Mrs Van Does herself went shopping in a cart, with two jars of diamonds and a bundle of batik bedspreads. In the evenings Addy went walking with Doddy and listened to her passionate reproaches. He laughed at her anger and took her in his arms until she clung to him gasping for breath: he kissed the accusations from her lips until, mad with love, she melted in his arms. They went no further, being afraid, especially Doddy. They walked beyond the compounds along the embankments through the rice fields, while swarms of fireflies in the darkness around them twinkled like tiny lamps; they walked arm in arm, hand in hand, enervated by physical desire that they never dared take to its logical conclusion. They explored each other all over with their hands, they made love with their hands. When she got home she was beside herself, furious with Mama, envying her calm, smiling fulfilment as she sat musing on a cane chair in her white peignoir, with a dusting of powder.

In the house, redecorated and whitewashed after the strange events—which were now over—there was a hatred that seemed to put out shoots everywhere like a diabolical flower, a hatred that surrounded the smiling woman who
was too lethargic to hate and whose only pleasure was silent teasing: a jealous hatred now of father for son when he saw him sitting too often with his stepmother, despite Theo’s own hatred begging for something his father could not fathom; a hatred of a son for his father; a hatred of a daughter for her mother; a hatred that spelt disaster for all family life. Van Oudijck did not know how it had gradually come to this. Sadly, he regretted the time when he had been blind, when he had seen his wife and children only in the light in which he wanted to see them. That was over now. Just as the strange events had once risen into their life, so hatred rose like a pestilential miasma from the ground. Van Oudijck, who had never been superstitious, who had worked coolly and calmly in his deserted house, where incomprehensible spectral activity continued around him, who had read reports with hammering going on over his head and his whisky and soda turning yellow in his glass—Van Oudijck, for the first time in his life, now saw the dark looks of Theo and Doddy; he now suddenly found his wife becoming more brazen every day, hand in hand with young De Luce, knees almost interlocked; he saw himself changed, aged, gloomily spying; became superstitious, insurmountably superstitious, believing in a hidden force, hidden he knew not where in the Indies, in the soil of the Indies, in a deep mystery, somewhere, somewhere—a force that meant him no good, because he was a European, a ruler, a stranger on this mysterious, sacred shore. When he saw this superstition in himself, so new for him as a practical man, so utterly incredible in him—a man
of simple, masculine sobriety—he was alarmed, as if at a latent madness he began to sense in himself.

Strong as he had been during the strange events, which he had been able to ward off with a single threat of force, this superstition—the aftermath of those events—found a weakness, a vulnerable spot in him. He was so surprised at not understanding himself that he was frightened of going mad, and yet he went on fretting. His health had been undermined by the beginnings of liver disease and he studied his yellow complexion. Suddenly he thought of poisoning. The kitchen was investigated and the cook was questioned, but nothing was found. He realized he was worrying about nothing, but the doctor diagnosed a swollen liver and prescribed the usual diet. What in other circumstances he would have considered quite normal—a very common illness—he now suddenly found odd, a strange phenomenon, about which he fretted. It affected his nerves. He now suffered from sudden bouts of tiredness while working, and from pounding headaches. His jealousy made him agitated; he was seized by tremors of restlessness. He suddenly realized that if there had been hammering above his head now, if betel juice had been spewed around him, he wouldn’t be able to stay in the house. And he believed in a hatred that rose in clouds out of the resentful earth like a pestilence. He believed in a force, deeply hidden in things in the Indies, in nature in Java, the climate of Labuwangi, in the mumbo-jumbo—that was what he still called it—that sometimes enables the Javanese to outsmart the Westerner, and gives him power, mysterious power, not
enough to free himself from the yoke, but sufficient to make people ill, make them languish, to taunt and torment them, to haunt them incomprehensibly and horribly—a hidden force, a hidden power, hostile to our Western temperament, our blood, our body, our soul, our civilization, to everything we see fit to be and to think. He had been illuminated as if by a sudden single light, not as a consequence of thinking. He had been illuminated as if with a single jolt of revelation, completely at odds with the logic of his everyday life, his everyday train of thought. He suddenly saw it before him in a single vision of terror, like the light of his approaching old age, just as the very old sometimes suddenly see the truth. Yet he was still young, he was strong… And he felt that unless he could divert his crazy thoughts they might make him ill, weak and miserable, for ever, for ever…