Twilight in Djakarta (15 page)

Yasrin entered the house, whistling, and as he opened the door to his room and stepped inside, Wiria, Ibu Warmana’s son, an S.M.A.
1
student who shared his room, greeted him with,

‘Aduh, you must be very pleased, abang, whistling like this.’

Yasrin laughed, and sat down on his bed.

‘Dik,’
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he said, ‘next month I’ll buy you the book you couldn’t buy yourself for lack of money. As my first present I’ll buy you the works of Shakespeare. Don’t you worry.’

Because Wiria was sharing the room with Yasrin, he cherished the idea of becoming a poet and writer himself. He loved Shakespeare; his dream was to possess Shakespeare’s works in their original, English version.

‘Wah,’ said Wiria, sitting up and looking at Yasrin, ‘where will you get the money from, abang?’

‘Beginning from today your abang is chief editor of a proletarian magazine, supporter of the people’s culture, with a salary of one thousand rupiah per month.’

Wiria uttered a cry of joy, and immediately begged him,

‘And you will include some of my writings, too, abang, yes?’

Yasrin consented easily. There were no difficulties left in his life or in the world, as far as he could see. He was back in the true line of battle. Everything had become simple and clear: the enemy to be annihilated; the aim to be pursued; and the way to attain it – that was clear, too. There was to be no mercy for, or compromise with, the enemies of the proletariat!

Yasrin stretched out on his bed. Its mattress was worn thin and the shabby sheet, once white, was now a greyish colour. At the head of his bed, near the window, stood a shaky table covered with old newspapers. On it were piled some books he had been able to pick up second-hand, or had borrowed from friends without ever returning them. All these books must be changed, too, Yasrin thought, turning over on his belly and looking at the books –
Darkness at Noon
by Arthur Koestler which he had once liked. That’ll have to go!
For Whom the Bell Tolls
by Ernest Hemingway – a bourgeois writer – blasé, as he’d said himself, though earlier Yasrin had dreamed of being able to write as lucidly as Hemingway. The books by Maxim Gorky will remain, of course, he said to himself. And Yasrin was already thinking of the moment he’d buy himself a new pair of trousers and a new shirt. It was so pleasant to imagine what one longed to have and at the same time to know that it was within one’s power to get it.

Evening. A heavy rain had been dripping steadily over Djakarta since the late afternoon. The air was grey and half of the sky was overcast with black clouds which threatened much heavier rain still to come. On the street, people on bicycles who were braving the rain pushed on at top speed, but many were seeking shelter under the trees along the road. Betja drivers had lowered the awnings over their front seats, and lovers seated inside could embrace cosily while driving through the evening rain. The wheels of motor-cars swished along the wet asphalt and their yellow lamps were like the eyes of wild beasts in the darkness of the night.

People sleeping under the bridge tried to protect themselves from the sprays of rain blown in by the wind, screening themselves with worn-out mats and praying that the rain would not turn into a downpour. And the people who slept in the big water-pipe that was waiting to be laid underground moved deeper inside, away from the opening where the rain was dripping in.

From time to time the heavy rolling of thunder rumbled above them, and it looked as if the rain was gradually growing heavier. Inside a car Raden Kaslan sat with his hands folded on his belly, looking out through the windscreen. The wipers swished back and forth, sweeping away the rainwater. At his side Husin Limbara sat in silence, engrossed in his own thoughts. Husin Limbara’s elegant Cadillac turned into the driveway of the Hotel des Indes, and Raden Kaslan and Husin Limbara stepped out.

‘Be back by midnight,’ Raden Kaslan told the driver.

They entered the restaurant.

‘Let’s sit and drink something until the rain eases or stops,’ said Raden Kaslan.

They ordered coffee and some titbits.

‘Is everything really all fixed, nothing will leak out?’ asked Husin Limbara.

‘Ah, you needn’t worry; if it’s Raden Kaslan who’s arranging
things, it’s sure to be well done.’

‘But …’

‘There’s always a first time for things like this,’ said Raden Kaslan, and, sipping his coffee, he added, ‘For us older men who’re near or over fifty, it’s a very good way. You’ll see for yourself. Indonesian women don’t like to do it. But Indo
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nonnas
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like it very much. The French kiss!’

‘What’s the name again of the nyonya who’s fixing it?’ asked Husin Limbara.

‘Tante Bep. You’ll meet her.’

Meanwhile the rain outside had begun to let up.

Raden Kaslan summoned a hotel boy and ordered him to call a betja for them.

In the betja Raden Kaslan was saying to Husin Limbara,

‘It’s better to go there by betja. If we went by car, who knows who might be passing by and recognise our car? If it happened to be an unfriendly reporter it could get into the newspapers.’

And Raden Kaslan burst out laughing.

The betja soon brought them to Petodjo, and, following Raden Kaslan’s directions, it entered an alley, and then stopped before Tante Bep’s house.

‘Shall I wait, tuan?’ asked Itam, the betja driver.

Raden Kaslan looked at the sky where clumps of dark clouds were still hanging, felt the thin drizzle and said,

‘All right, just wait here.’

He then hurried inside, drawing Husin Limbara in after him.

Tante Bep, who was waiting for them in the front room, rose quickly to shake hands with both Raden Kaslan and Husin Limbara.

‘Aduh, tuan,’ Tante Bep was saying, ‘I had begun to think you wouldn’t come at all because of the rain. We agreed on nine o’clock, it’s already close to ten now.’

‘Have the nonnas come?’ asked Raden Kaslan eagerly.

‘They’re here, inside. They almost went home. Come on, go in, please!’ said Tante Bep.

Husin Limbara, drawn along by Raden Kaslan, went inside while Raden Kaslan was saying jokingly,

‘This friend of mine’s still a virgin, still a bit shy!’

Tante Bep laughed.

She took them to the verandah at the back. Two Eurasian girls were sitting at the table. They just sat looking on as Husin Limbara and Raden Kaslan sat down.

‘Good evening, Eve,’ said Raden Kaslan to the one with black hair. She had a lovely figure and wore a gown cut so low that half of her full white breasts were showing.

‘This is a friend of mine,’ said Raden Kaslan introducing Husin Limbara to Eve. And Eve, remaining seated, extended her hand with a slight smile.

‘I haven’t met this nonna yet, isn’t she lovely, too?’ said Raden Kaslan.

‘This is Eda,’ said Tante Bep, introducing her.

Eda’s hair was of a russet colour, she was slightly smaller than Eve, and indifferently she gave her hand, first to Raden Kaslan, then to Husin Limbara.

‘Nah,’ said Raden Kaslan, ‘which one of them do you want? You’re the guest of honour tonight, and you may choose. As for me I want Eda here, she’s new!’ and he caressed Eda from behind her chair.

Eda slapped the hand grasping her breast and said,

‘Not so fast, jongen!’
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‘It’s ten o’clock already,’ said Eve. ‘Come on, it’ll be getting late.’

Eve drew Husin Limbara into the room adjoining the verandah, and Raden Kaslan drew Eda with him into the middle room.

As soon as they were inside Eve turned the key in the door, and
said to Husin Limbara,

‘If it isn’t locked Tante Bep is likely to peep.’

Husin Limbara sat down on the bed. From the moment they’d entered the room Eve’s behaviour had changed completely. The nonchalant attitude she’d kept up on the verandah had vanished and she was a young woman greatly taken with Husin Limbara. Her eyes, her smile and the movements of her body excited the fifty-year-old man.

While on the verandah he’d still felt rather confused, and when Raden Kaslan had invited him to go inside he had been hesitant, but now, alone with Eve, he was delighted to feel the pulsing of his aroused blood. He was getting on – it had been a long time – he could hardly remember having sexual relations with a woman. He had stopped doing anything with his own wife long ago. But now he felt the surging joy of his virility once again as he saw Eve taking off her clothes one by one, and then coming to him in only her bra and panties. Eve took hold of Husin Limbara’s hand. Husin Limbara trembled, his breath tightening. The experienced Eve had seen it all before. She helped Husin Limbara off with his jacket and then he lay back on the bed watching Eve slip off her bra and panties, and, swinging her hips, go towards the door and turn off the light. The room was now in semi-darkness, some light still filtering from the back verandah. Then Eve came over to the bed and whispered,

‘Do you want a French kiss?’ And she laughed softly.

Outside in the drizzling rain, now falling more heavily again, Itam sat huddled in his betja, clasping his shoulders with his chilled hands, waiting.

On that same rainy night, Fatma came to Suryono’s room. Suryono was reading a Western. Fatma locked the door, and Suryono knew at once what his stepmother desired. During the past few weeks all the initiative had been coming from his
stepmother. Fatma herself had brought up the subject several times, but Suryono had always managed to avoid it up till now. During these last weeks Suryono’s feelings had become more and more mixed up. Fatma, his stepmother, Dahlia, Ies – the three of them were in his blood, each attractive to him in her own way. Yet Fatma was gradually being pushed to the background by Dahlia and Ies, and Dahlia in turn was being supplanted by Ies. None of this was clear to him yet, but some subconscious process had already thrown him into a state of great confusion and robbed him of his peace of mind. It was as though his life were threatened every moment by some great disaster and destruction. Just from what direction and in what form the danger or calamity would descend upon him he couldn’t imagine.

Fatma came to Suryono as he lay on his bed, sat down at his side, drew his head into her arms and kissed his mouth in a
long-drawn
, deep kiss. She whispered,

‘Aduh, I’m longing for you so! It’s been two weeks since we’ve had a chance.’

For a moment Suryono decided to resist Fatma’s caresses, but his intentions were dispersed like smoke blown by the wind by Fatma’s passionate kiss ….

Later, when they had calmed down, Fatma got out of the bed and sat down in a chair. Suryono lit a cigarette and said to her,

‘Have you ever stopped to think of the future?’

‘I don’t understand what you mean,’ said Fatma.

‘This can’t go on for ever. Sooner or later Father will find out,’ said Suryono, ‘and what will happen then?’

‘Ah, even if he does find out, what can he do to us? Don’t I know he’s playing around with other women himself?’

‘Yes, but I’m his son and you are my stepmother!’

‘So what?’ said Fatma. ‘Besides we’ve enough money, no need to worry. We could move out of this house any time we like.’

‘You don’t care about my father at all?’ asked Suryono.

‘I’m too young and he’s too old for us to be together.’

‘It’s strange that there should be no emotional or spiritual bond between myself and my father at all now,’ said Suryono, addressing himself mainly. And he remembered that when he was a child the relationship between himself and his father, as father and son, had been very close. But then later he had spent many years in his uncle’s care while at school, far from home. Having no brothers or sisters, and having lost his mother in addition, the old intimacy with his father had vanished imperceptibly. Moreover, watching his father’s activities during recent months had in no way enhanced his respect for him. From time to time he even felt contempt for his own behaviour as well. Emotionally he knew that what they were doing was wrong; that even though it was all quite legal, to exploit the party’s power to enrich oneself was still improper, somehow. And it was the same with his relationship with Fatma. He felt that it was not proper, yet every time he succumbed again. It was the same with his acceptance of the special licences. He felt that it wasn’t right for him to be getting them, but the hundreds of thousands these licences yielded excited and pleased him, reminded him of Dahlia’s caresses, the bright polish of a new car, the pleasure of eating in a fine restaurant, the weight of the wallet in his pocket. Unable to resist this temptation, he even experienced a kind of pleasure in trading his special licences.

‘What did you say?’ Suryono asked suddenly, coming out of his musings and noticing that Fatma was speaking.

‘Ah, you weren’t even listening, where on earth were your thoughts?’ Fatma said, showing her annoyance. ‘You’ve been like this a lot lately; is there another woman?’ she asked, the woman in her speaking.

Suryono gave a little laugh.

‘I’m upset. Haven’t been feeling too good the past few days. God knows why…’ he said.

‘You didn’t answer my question. Is there another woman?’ Fatma asked again.

Suryono looked at Fatma, and decided to test her.

‘And if there were, what then?’

Fatma laughed, and said,

‘If there is, it’s none of my business. I’m not your wife, but
your
father’s. But if another woman is giving you trouble, tell me about it, maybe I can help you.’

‘Aduh,’ said Suryono, somewhat startled, ‘you don’t have any morals.’

‘Do you have any? Morality is just a burden, just causes people trouble,’ Fatma replied, laughing. ‘People should do what gives them pleasure while they’re alive to do so, that’s all. Don’t rack your brains about things you’re not responsible for. I care for you, and I’m happy when you’re carefree, and that’s why I want to help you. Come on, tell me!’

Suryono laughed.

‘By Allah!’ he said. ‘I’ve never met a woman like you!’