Tales from Djakarta: Caricatures of Circumstances and their Human Beings 9781501719011

Table of contents :
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
TABLE OF CONTENTS
A FOREWORD
INTRODUCTION
I. HOUSEBOY + MAID
II. NEWS FROM KEBAJORAN
III. STRANDED FISH
IV. MY KAMPUNG
V. MAMAN AND His WORLD
VI. GAMBIR
VII. MISCARRIAGE OF A WOULD-BE PLAYWRIGHT
VIII. HOUSE
IX. CREATURES BEHIND HOUSES
X. NO RESOLUTION
XI. THE MASTERMIND
XII. MRS. VETERINARY DOCTOR SUHARKO
XIII. KETJAPI
GLOSSARY

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Tales from Djakarta: Caricatures of Circumstances and their Human Beings

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Pramoedya Ananta Toer

Tales from Djakarta: Caricatures of Circumstances and their Human Beings

SOUTHEAST ASIA PROGRAM PUBLICATIONS Southeast Asia Program Cornell University Ithaca, New York 1999

SEAP

Editorial Board Benedict Anderson George Kahin Stanley O'Connor Keith Taylor Oliver Wolters Cornell Southeast Asia Program Publications 640 Stewart Avenue, Ithaca, NY 14850-3857 Studies on Southeast Asia No. 27

© 1999 Pramoedya Ananta Toer. Reprinted 2002. Reprinted by arrangement with William Morrow & Company Inc. All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in a review, no part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Cornell Southeast Asia Program. Printed in the United States of America ISBN 0-87727-726-5

Cover art: Charcoal drawing, "Family Outing on Bicycle," by Otto Djaja, dated 1954. From the Claire Holt collection. Photograph of the drawing by A. Hudson.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS The Nusantara Translation Group is an association of graduate students specializing in Malay/Indonesian Language and Literature in the Department of South and Southeast Asian Studies at the University of California, Berkeley. The members of this translation forum who have contributed translated stories to the present volume are: Ray Chandrasekara, Kevin Dixon, Gary Nathan Gartenberg, Julie Shackford-Bradley, and Brandon Spars. We wish to express our gratitude and appreciation to the following individuals for their guidance, assistance, and support: Ben Abel, Benedict Anderson, Robert P. Goldman, Deborah Homsher, Yusuf Isak, Ken Kendro, Daniel Lev, Sumit Mandal, Goenawan Mohamad, William Schwalbe, Peter Dale Scott, Toenggoel Siagian, Sylvia Tiwon, Pramoedya Ananta Toer.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS A Foreword

Goenawan Mohamtahd

9

Introduction

11

I.

Houseboy+Maid

17

E.

News from Kebajoran

27

m.

Stranded Fish

37

IV.

My Kampung Translated by Sumit Mandal

54

V.

Maman and His World Translated by Ray Chandrasekara

59

VL

Gambir

65

Benedict R. O'G. Anderson Translated by Julie Shackford-Bradley

Translated by Ray Chandrasekara

Translated by Kevin Dixon

Translated by Gary Nathan Gartenberg

VH. Miscarriage of a Would-Be Playwright

88

VIII. House

98

Translated by Brandon Spars

Translated by Sumit Mandal

DC

Creatures Behind Houses

104

X.

No Resolution Translated by Julie Shackford-Bradley

109

XI.

The Mastermind Translated by Gary Nathan Gartenberg

121

Translated by Kevin Dixon

XH. Mrs. Veterinary Doctor Suharko

Translated by Benedict JR. O'G. Anderson

131

8

Tales from Djakarta

Xm. Ketjapi Translated by Julie Shackford-Bradley and Brandon Spars

137

Glossary

143

A FOREWORD Goenawan Mohamad

Pramoedya Ananta Toer's stories are forceful pieces of writing of which the beginning is not the word. The present collection is the work of a prose writer par excellence. In its own way, it could serve as the opposite paradigm of the Mallarmean mold; it is written with ideas, not with words. No shocks and surprises of verbal differences prompt its syntax. The author is in complete control of the movement of his prose; he represents a consciousness that dictates the language, not the other way around. In this sense, translating Pramoedya stories can be misleadingly easy. You tend to see it as largely a conversion of the signified. You can transmute the semantic content from one language into another without worrying too much about distorting the materiality of the text. However, Pramoedya's prose emits warmth that makes the reader aware of the presence of the author, almost physically. Pramoedya engages his reader in a constant conversation, establishing a context defined by a shared sense of experiencing "Indonesia." His Jakarta stories are basically a repudiation of a "universal" reader. A translation is a project to reverse it. It is almost a hopeless effort. Read by people outside Pramoedya's "Indonesia"-shaped circle, the works could easily pass as a series of odd, sketchy, and often grim notes about people and places, most of them fervently constructed to make a point. The present volume consists of translation that in varying degrees attempts to put the reader, as it were, in a site not very far from the center of the circle, by retaining some untranslatable words like wah, or perfectly translatable ones like gang or nak. But there is another element that may not be convertible even in the best of translations, which is time. To Indonesian readers living in the 1950s—the years Pramoedya wrote and published these stories—this collection would carry a greater thrust of urgency. The period was the summer of popular discontent, an intense time of disillusion to Indonesians who thought that the 1945 independence would deliver a better life and more enthusiasm for their country's future. Pramoedya's stories bear the mark of the contemporary mood. Today, reading his stories is like going to an exhibition of paintings where at the door the author meets a select group of readers, takes them in, and guides them confidently into the hall. While the reader moves from one panel to another, the author explains, makes comments, and interjects. Right after the first work one can

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Tales from Djakarta

see that the exhibition is a display of sketches of human, or better still, Indonesian pains. The sketches are done in bold brushstrokes, with an impassioned touch of insistence. You can discern Pramoedya's indignation, his impatience, and his bitterness, responses that motivated him to locate his destitute and dispossessed characters as instrumental elements in his web of argument. The stories are impelled by such a force of anger that it pushes them to come forward so that they present themselves almost with no narrative stratagem. In fact, the stories present readers with no "narrative" in the usual sense; they have little time for opposing perspectives and different consciousnesses. Many of the stories read like plots of novels yet to be written in years to come. This, I think, is because they speak to, and are shaped by, an entirely different audience than, let's say, the Londoners who originally read Charles Dickens. The well-crafted Dickensian scenes recounting events that took place in the bleak streets of the city have a telling polychromy and a heart-warming sense of timing that worked nicely to engage, and move, the bourgeois readers of his time. Pramoedya did not have the luxury of such an encounter. His is a rather panoptical way of viewing the Jakartan underclass of the '50s. His characters exist like synchronic actors on a stage, and his stage, or his cityscape, is on the main unitary. I think this is because each story is a kind of strategic negotiation between the necessity of form and the "performative" compulsion. To Pramoedya, a writer is the one who believes that good things can be done with words. In this sense, the beginning is the act. This may explain the anxiety of engagement that runs in these stories. Pramoedya's writing does not assume itself to be a text where, like in a picnic (I borrow the malicious metaphor from Todorov), the author brings the words and the readers bring the sense. Pramoedya's exclamation marks, his explanatory or sarcastic interjections in the middle of his own descriptions (not unlike audience and actors in a lenong performance), as well as his recourse to stereotypes, are parts of his struggle against indifference, apathy, and aimlessness. The stories have an acerbic tone of despair, but they invite the readers to address the human condition that renders the Jakarta poor as they were and as they are. Indirectly they also explain Pramoedya's political involvement in the left-wing movement of th£ 1960s—a choice of action that has made him a victim and, eventually, a hero.

INTRODUCTION Benedict R. O'G. Anderson

Many years ago, while on a visit to Australia, I had my one and only meeting with the Indonesian writer Idrus, who was near the end of a long-unhappy life. Idrus was then—and still is—regarded as the gifted pioneer of the modern Indonesian short story; some of his texts remain standard anthology pieces. I had been reading his stories so-to-speak alongside those of Pramoedya Ananta Toer, and I took the opportunity to ask the senior writer what he thought of his younger rival's work. "Well," he said dismissively, "Pram doesn't know how to write short stories; what he produces are simply dongeng [tales]." I remember initially feeling slightly irritated by this apparent slur, attributing it to professional jealousy. But the comment had a perhaps unintended truth to it which I realized only later, with exhilaration, when my old friend and colleague Jim Siegel sent back to me from Jakarta a mesmerizing tape he had recorded of Pramoedya reading aloud "Ketjapi," the last story in the present volume, over a cacophonous background of roosters crowing, children shouting, and vehicles honking. It occurred to me then to experiment on my own by reading aloud fine stories by both writers. The contrast was immediately apparent. Idrus's texts gained little in the process because he drew on the traditions of newspaper reporting and the formal ingenuities of Maupassant and O. Henry. In the work of Pram, however, the voice of the story-teller—urgent, sardonic, compassionate, and melancholy—seemed to affect and change everything written on the page. It shouldn't have been a surprise, I thought to myself. Pram had grown up in late-colonial small-town Java, where illiteracy was overwhelming, and thus where the voices of fable-telling nursemaids, mothers, and grandfathers, wayang puppeteers, neighborhood gossips, and even radio performers were the media through which the world was socially imagined. Furthermore, poverty and the Japanese Occupation had forced him to end any formal schooling at the age of sixteen. Besides, had he not first recounted orally the four novels of the "Buru" tetralogy to his fellow-prisoners before he was allowed to set them down on paper? That's it, I came to think, Pram really isn't a "short story" writer, and Tjerita dari Djakarta cannot be translated as "Short Stories from Djakarta." He is a teller of tales, a descendant of the Erzahler (Teller of Tales), about whom Walter Benjamin wrote: "Experience which is passed on mouth to mouth is the source from which all Erzahler have drawn."

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Tales from Djakarta

Professor Andreas Teeuw has given us an excellent brief outline of Pramoedya's life and career, which it is not here necessary to recapitulate in full.1 It is perhaps sufficient to mention the most important circumstances which brought Tales from Djakarta into being. Pram first came to Djakarta in June 1942, immediately after the death of his beloved mother in his hometown of Blora, and three months after the fall of the Dutch colonial regime to the invading armies of Emperor Hirohito. He was just seventeen years old. During the three and a half years of the Japanese Occupation he lived with an uncle, attended a Taman Siswa school for young adults, and worked as a typist and stenographer for the Japanese news-service Domei. In this last capacity he had his first personal contacts with members of Indonesia's nationalist elite, as he was assigned to take stenographic notes on some of their official meetings. Towards the end of the Occupation, he abandoned his job in frustration and left for a remote village in southern Java where his grandfather had been buried. When the news of Japan's defeat and of the August 17, 1945 proclamation of Indonesian independence by Sukarno and Hatta reached his village, he made his way back to Djakarta and quickly enrolled in the Badan Keamanan Rakjat (People's Security Organization) which was the seed out of which the Indonesian military, as well as countless non-state paramilitary revolutionary groups (badan perdjuangan) emerged. He was assigned to a unit stationed at the railway junction of Tjikampek, on the northern plain of West Java, and quickly rose to the rank of sergeant-major. By the end of 1946 he had become deeply disillusioned by the corruption and factional fighting among the Republic's armed forces. On January 1, 1947 he therefore left the army and made his way back to Dutch-occupied Djakarta, where he worked for the semi-underground "Voice of Free Indonesia." Two days after the colonial regime launched its first so-called "Police Action" on July 21, he was arrested by the Dutch marines and confined to the Bukit Duri Prison. He was not freed until the end of December 1949, when The Hague finally agreed to transfer its colonial sovereignty to a United States of Indonesia. Among the many latercelebrated works he produced in this prison came "Houseboy + Maid," the first story in this collection. Emerging from detention, he found himself already famous, since his prisonwritten novella Perburuan, smuggled out by his friend Professor Resink, had won the top literary prize awarded by the Balai Pustaka, a Dutch-created institute for the promotion of "native" writers and writing. But he had no money and was forced to live unhappily with his first wife and her parents in the semi-slum of Kebun Djah£ Kober, so mordantly described in "My Kampung." Kebun Djah£ Kober was located quite close to the Governor-General's palace (by now the official residence of President Sukarno), which in turn faced onto Gambir Square (today's Merdeka Square). This vast unkempt space was the night-time habitat of the miserable prostitutes of "News from Kebajoran" and of the angry, unemployed exrevolutionaries of "Stranded Fish." In 1953, with serious misgivings, he accepted a grant from the Dutch Sticusa (Foundation for Cultural Cooperation) to spend a year in The Netherlands. It was an unhappy experience for several reasons, and Pram returned to Jakarta after only six months. But out of these six months came the sunny "Maman and His World," the

Introduction

13

grim "Gambir," and the partly self-mocking "Miscarriage of a Would-Be Playwright/7 Already in 1954 there was a widespread feeling among the Indonesian public that the high expectations of "Independence" had not been fulfilled and were increasingly unlikely to be fulfilled. By the terms of the Round Table Agreement of late 1949, the young Republic had not only been saddled with the debts of the colonial regime it had displaced (including those incurred in fighting the Republic for four years), but had been required to guarantee the continuing power and property of the giant Dutch agribusiness, trading, and financial conglomerates. The agreement had also specified that the colonial-era military be incorporated into the national army, that collaborationist politicians be at least temporarily guaranteed positions in a provisional parliament, and that the bureaucracy also secure the jobs of many colonial native civil servants. Political parties were increasingly seen as corrupt and faction-ridden, while armed revolts broke out in several provinces, including some which had ardently supported the Revolution of 1945. At the same time Jakarta's population was increasing extremely rapidly as people poured in from the small towns and countryside to seek their fortunes in the capital. In 1954, however, there was still hope that long-stalled general elections would transform the situation, eliminating collaborators and putting into power a government with proven popular backing. In the event, however, the elections of 1955, though free and mostly peaceful, did not have the expected outcome. The new parliament was dominated by four huge parties (including a revived Communist Party) whose mutual suspicions made the formation of a stable coalition government a difficult task. At the end of 1956 military mutinies began to spread in Sumatra and later in Sulawesi, and in March 1957, pushed by the army high command, President Sukarno promulgated martial law, essentially bringing Indonesia's experiment with liberal parliamentary democracy to an end. The last five tales in this volume were published at various times in 1955 and 1956, and in 1957 were collected, with the earlier tales, as Tjerita dari Djakarta. One of them, "The Mastermind," is a savage caricature of the opportunist "exrevolutionary" leaders at the moment of the elections. After this, Pramoedya largely ceased writing "tales," turning his energies to historical studies, novels, polemical essays, and, increasingly, political lectures and speeches. The reasons for this shift need not concern us here. It is enough to recapitulate by saying that all the Tales from Djakarta come from the eight years between 1948 and 1956—the time of bitter transition from the revolutionary era to the beginnings of military rule.

Though Pramoedya has published four collections of tales—Pertjikan Revolusi (Sparks of the Revolution) in 1950; Subuh (Dawn) in 1950; Tjerita dari Blora (Tales from Blora) in 1952; and Tjerita dari Djakarta in 1957—it has been Tjerita dari Blora that has all along been the critical favorite. This eminence is by no means unjustified if one considers the splendors of "Jang Sudah Hilang" (What Has Vanished), "Anak Haram" (The Outcast), and "Dia Jang Menjerah" (She Who Gave Up). But it is also the consequence of two secondary factors. On the one hand, almost all these tales are set in the Erzahler's colonial-era childhood, or in the tragic and dramatic circumstances of the Japanese Occupation and the Revolution—which are also the subjects of many of Pramoedya's early novels. There is therefore something

14

Tales from Djakarta

"uplifting" here which one scarcely finds in the experience of postrevolutionary Indonesia. On die other hand, this evaluation encourages the critic to overlook those brilliant tales "Pelarian Jang Tak Ditjari" (The Runaway Whom No One Ran After), "Hadiah Kawin" (Wedding Present), and above all "Hidup Jang Tak Diharapkan" (A Life of Surprises), which are full of dark laughter and clearly foreshadow the best texts in Tales from Djakarta. (Conversely, in the latter volume, tales like "No Resolution" and "Gambir" continue the "heroic" vein of much of Tales from Blora.) The unsettling thing, of course, is Tales from Djakarta's subtitle: Caricatures of Circumstances and their Human Beings (a typically Pramoedya reversal of the expectable "Human Beings and Their Circumstances"). No doubt this subtitle was added after the event and did not inform all the stories from their first beginnings. But it is mostly apt. The caricaturist works from his or her experience of life, not from his or her fantasies or dreams, let alone interviews. At the same time she confidently announces her presence exactly as a teller of tales. "Houseboy + Maid" signals her to the reading eye, and "Djongos Plus Babu" to the ear. "And now I would like to recount the tale of a man's life, a man who, because of a misinterpretation, fell into my hands to become the hero of my story" does both. The disjunctive between tale and teller serves also as means whereby the anger of the caricaturist at the Circumstances—and Pramoedya was a hugely angry man in the Circumstances of the 1950s—is held back from their human beings, and turned in part upon his listeners. One of the most celebrated examples of this peculiar "caricatural" style of narration is Lu Hsiin's tale, "The True Story of Ah Q," which opens with the unnamed Erzahler explaining to the reader that he has invented the name Ah Q, which is deliberately—in the style of "Djongos + Babu"—made a caricature. On the first page of Chinese characters Q appears as a singular Roman letter. As the tale proceeds from drolleries through mischances to final horror, the Roman Q never disappears. In this manner we are never permitted to feel anger at Ah Q himself, only deeper and deeper pity; but we do feel the full brunt of Lu Hsiin's anger at the circumstances of his China and his invitation to his readers to "do something" about them. It is not a method that is simple to develop, and Pramoedya is not always up to the difficulties involved. "Houseboy + Maid" begins magnificently (Pram was twenty-one when he wrote it) but by the end the anger has been diverted from circumstances to human beings. "The Mastermind" is little more than a blast of rage at certain political leaders. On the other hand, in "News from Kebajoran" and "Gambir"—both of which have wonderful passages—pity for the central characters overwhelms the caricaturist. Melodrama extends no invitations to readers to "do something." But the method is deployed deftly in "Stranded Fish," where the main character is shadowed by his weird doppelganger However; in "My Kampung," a tale haunted by the killer-angel Gabriel (Old Djibril); and in the half-comical misery of "Miss Two" in "Creatures Behind Houses." And finally it rises to perfection in the great "Ketjapi."

Pram is notoriously difficult to translate. There is often a Javanese cultural or Javanese linguistic subtext to his Indonesian. He coins words as it suits him. His dialogue can be highly stylized. He often mixes archaisms with neologisms. And so

Introduction

15

on. The Southeast Asia Program is enormously appreciative of the sustained endeavors of the Berkeley collective that has brought Tales from Djakarta into English print: Ray Chandrasekara, Kevin Dixon, Gary Nathan Gartenberg, Julie ShackfordBradley, and Brandon Spars. For this group Julie Shackford-Bradley has done yeoman service as spokesperson, coordinator, and energizer. We are also very grateful to Sumit Mandal of the Institut Kajian Malaysia dan Antarabangsa, who on his own translated two of the stories here included. Finally, we would like to take the opportunity to thank William Schwalbe, who over the years has done more than anyone to bring Pramoedya to a wide English-reading public, for giving us permission to go ahead with this modest publication.

Note: We faced a dilemma with regard to the spelling of Indonesian-language words and names. In Pramoedya's lifetime, the official spelling-system has twice been changed, once in the revolutionary 1940s and once in the counterrevolutionary 1970s. For his own name, Pramoedya, like many others of his generation, retains the colonial-era system (i.e. Pramoedya rather than Pramudya). At the time when Tjerita dari Djakarta was published the revolutionary-era system was in use. In preparing the text for publication we could have changed over completely to Suharto-era "New Spelling" (e.g. Cerita dari Jakarta), but we decided against this option as a jarring anachronism. We could also have used the older spelling for the stories themselves, and the newer one for the footnotes and introduction, but feared that this would needlessly confuse the reader. So we ended up consistently using the revolutionaryera spelling throughout. Besides, with the fall of Suharto, who knows what spelling system will now emerge? 1 A. Teeuw, Citra Manusia Indonesia dalam karya sastra Pramoedya Ananta Toer (Jakarta: Pustaka Jaya, 1997), chapter 1, pp. 1-55.

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I. HOUSEBOY + MAID (BUKIT DURI PRISON, 1948)

Ever since the time of Jan Pietersz. Coen, this family had servant's blood—from generation to generation.1 Servants without reserve! Loyal down to the last hair on their bodies. Or perhaps not merely since Coen. It's highly possible that it had been that way since Pieter Both or the era when Houtman wandered the seven seas.2 No one knows for sure. What is certain is that this family was known at a time before Coen had become a statue evicted from in front of the Department of Finance by the Japanese. The first generation became known because it was recorded in a big book with romanized letters: "native sergeant... [gazette number]..." The rank of sergeant was quite high at that time. With a rank like that, a man could rapidly reproduce. And this generation produced forty children. Who knows how many dams there were.3 No one knows. Because this sort of information wasn't allowed into the big book. The second generation—servants again, soldiers without rank! Then from generation to generation, the status of these servants continued to decline. Little by little. Finally, by 1949, the family line descended to Sobi and Inah— the bottom of the barrel. A year before, they had still been servants of the state. What the pair had not known: clouds of danger were gathering over their heads. Their rank as servants would descend one degree further—to become servants of the Federal District of Batavia!4 Sobi as houseboy, Inah as maid. Had God remained as kind-hearted as he was in the old days, and willing to extend further this servant lineage, the thirtieth generation would certainly no longer be human, but—worms wriggling about in the dirt. And this was only logical. The complexion of this family lineage is a story in itself. After the aforementioned sergeant, all of the descendants had ugly complexions. It never changed. Until one of the umpteenth generations, when empok Kotek was born.5 Blessed with tuberculosis, she developed a lovely glow. And she was considered beautiful. Empok Kotek was faithful to her heritage—a true servant! Loyal to the last hair. Because of this, even though she was just a maid, her tuan once said: "Tomorrow njonja has to go to Kopeng to rest for a month. And Njai will have to stay here in the house with tuan, okay?"6 She didn't understand why he suddenly called her njai. She only understood when the tuan returned from accompanying her njonja. And later—at a bad time— she dropped something. And that something could cry. And people called it her child. She could scarcely believe how easily and how pleasantly a human being came into being. Astonishing! But the child was already there. And its eyes were light brown. She didn't regret it—she held firm to the discipline of servitude.

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Tales from Djakarta

Rodinah appeared in this world. Even though her eyes were light brown, she too became a maid in the end. But in Rodinah's hands, the doors to the family's golden age swung open. Rodinah was just like Victoria for the kingdom of Great Britain. The darkness of the family had diminished with her. Her nose was thin and straight. Her eyes were wide and her eyelashes curved upward. Her lips were thin on the top and bottom. And her body was like a guitar that had not yet been played to death, not yet staved in. The strange thing is that a turnabout of this sort had no effect on the history of this lineage—it remained one of total, natural servitude. Had a few ambitions been able to sprout in her heart, Rodinah would certainly have become the chauffeur of this family's fate for generations to come. But such ambitions did not develop. And there was no one to regret it. What's the point of living, if one cannot be happy and take pleasure in one's birthright? And ambitions only produce anxieties among humankind. That is why she remained a maid. Rodinah—like the average person—eventually reached adulthood. One unforgettable event was when she received a proposal of marriage. And this suitor was an older man, an honorably retired overseer who would be dead in four years time.7 She declined, of course. This had by now become her right. So she held to a tradition which withstood the tests of time. Just as her body filled out, so too did her beauty shine forth. Ail historical moment arrived. Suddenly, just like that. Like a meteorite falling from the stars. No one could have predicted exactly when it would fall. Rodinah was named "Poppi" by her tuan. In fact she looked just like a Japanese doll.8 The name Rodinah was erased from history. She became Poppi—a true, flesh-and-blood doll. Poppi had never heard of the policy of divide et impera. But as a light-skinned maid, she knew that dark-skinned Ambonese people had to be treated as white. She herself had an effective strategy: to divide others and surrender herself. She carried out this strategy very seriously. She had the added benefit of disciplined devotion to her tradition—loyalty down to the last hair on her body. Complete devotion to servitude! Nonetheless she divided others too! And through this strategy, she plucked her finest fruit. Just like Victoria, when she acquired Africa. And the victory was this: her first child was born with nappy reddish-brown hair. The brilliance of her strategy was such that she could not figure out whether little Sobi was the son of her tuan Hendrik. Or the son of the son of tuan Hendrik—her employer. Or the son of tuan Hendrik's neighbor, tuan Klaasen. Or of tuan Giljam from France.9 Or of tuan Koorda. Or of tuan Harten. She didn't know. She never worried her head over it. What she did know was that she'd had a fifty percent part in the creation of Sobi. And she never realized that God had also played a part in the creation of her child. Poppi was diligent in executing her strategy. So she succeeded in forcing each man to acknowledge Sobi as his own son. A dark screen stretched out between one father and the next. None knew the role of the other in the event of Sobi's creation. And from these six fathers Poppi was able to build a house with stucco walls and filled with these contents: two radios and a gramophone. And day and night these things could be heard playing simultaneously! Along with the excited pounding of her own heart: This is the Poppi's walled house!10 Who could top it? But she kept her secret stored tightly in the depths of her being. It was this: her strategy of divide and rule and of surrendering herself.

Houseboy + Maid

19

She also intended to start a new life as a free person, a civilian.11 This intention she carried out. She married five times the way that ordinary people marry. That is, with the ratification of a mosque. But always temporarily. Two months at the longest. It was always her shrewdness that destroyed these valid marriages. She could always feel out her husbands' schemes: they had no intention of providing her with a decent living. On the contrary, they wanted to deceive her and seduce her. In the end she let them go their way, let them sail off on the wind that blew from their own sterns. Her servile soul did not allow her to sit quietly at home. So, once again she became a maid—in a different area. And she continued with the same strategy. A new success appeared—Inah was born into this world. And in the creation of this new being—as before—she also claimed a fifty percent share. She could not determine the identity of the child's father. There were more than nine candidates. She could only count the money coming in. Time passed with its usual speed. Suddenly, in her view, white people were no longer attractive. And suddenly she could smell them from a meter's distance. Previously, she had paid no attention to their odor, even from a distance of only a tenth of a centimeter. And how musty this odor was! Because now she found Japanese men to be more appetizing. Their slanted eyes increased the masculinity of their faces, and their short legs aroused a burning passion in her heart. How nice it would be if she could have a slant-eyed child. What's more, the sixteen fathers of her two children no longer had even the ten cents required to buy themselves a pack of cigarettes. This world turns with a certain precision. After all, if people don't keep close watch, they are shocked to realize that their limbs are no longer willing to be governed by their thoughts. Suddenly people feel old and unnecessary in the world that they have previously ignored. This is what happened to Poppi as well. No one knew what the illness was that afflicted this beautiful woman. The two radios and the gramophone had no idea either. And one unpleasant day she was buried. Just before her end, she regained consciousness and was surprised that her death was so close, so quick, and so simple. But she died anyway, leaving behind her fifty percent creations—Sobi and Inah.

Just like their ancestors, this pair had the instinct of faithful servants—without reserve, loyal to the last hair on their bodies. As a houseboy and a maid of the highest grade, they felt tortured if they were not taking orders. And their lives' happiness depended upon the receipt of such orders. They included themselves among those who veered toward the "right"—they were not revolutionaries of the maid/houseboy sort who stole knives-forks-spoons, then ran away. No! They forced themselves to be faithful to their duties. Who knew, perhaps they could extend their servility for three more generations. So they set up demarcation lines for their lives' domain. Just as Renville set up status quo demarcation lines for the life of the Republic.12 After Poppi died, Sobi became a houseboy in the office of the Dai Sanka—the office of Japanese naval intelligence. His latest ambition was to wear a cap with a yellow star, a white uniform, and a samurai sword with a golden hilt and a crinklepainted sheath. This goal was never realized. The Japanese never gave him the

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Tales from Djakarta

opportunity. But he was thrilled at the chance to shout "keirei!" as a Dai Sanka colonel stepped out of his car.13 Just like the others, he hated colonialism—Dutch colonialism, that is. What colonialism really was, he didn't know. But, to hell with it, he hated it too. Whatever issued from the mouths of the Japanese was the voice of truth. And everyone was obliged to believe it. Luckily, he could be sincere in this. If not, his rank as houseboy would have been eliminated, like the lives of the romusha.u Inah worked at the same place as an assistant to the laundry maid. But at that time she was just twelve years old. So her chest was still flat and she didn't attract much attention. And so she also did not have the opportunity to play a role. The road of history is never straight. Japan was defeated. The British arrived. And the Indonesians went crazy. And this brother and sister were forced to go into hiding. After a while they were brave enough to emerge. And Sobi gathered his courage and joined in hunting down the Japanese and in disarming them of their clothes. But these conditions were also short-lived. Next the English went crazy.15 White-skinned people once again held sovereignty over Djakarta. And suddenly the brother and sister felt disgust for the Japanese. Along with many others they felt they'd been tricked, even though they did not understand how the trick had worked. And white-skinned people once again loomed large in their estimation. The sounds of gunfire were no longer heard. What caused commotion every day was: distribution! People were sick and tired of shouting with raised fists. Even those who had called themselves the vanguard. And those who had once sat on leadership councils. Why not Sobi and Inah as well? That's why Sobi was once again a houseboy—a houseboy for white people who, during the Japanese occupation, had had no value, no value greater than their own fingernails. And he could now feel superior within the circle of houseboys who had merely Indonesian employers. He had learned to separate himself from those houseboys who worked for the Chinese and Indonesians. He had learned how to sing: "yua olwees in mai haat" softly and out of tune. This period of servitude brought him the greatest happiness of his life. Especially when he was able to propose an improvement for his employer's household—the ultimate satisfaction attainable for a houseboy. Houseboys have their own class structure. There are houseboys who understand politics. There are those who know commerce. There are also houseboys who are capable diplomats. There are others who can shoot. But Sobi was a houseboy of the lowest rank. He was happy if he never had to hear the word "politics." Because, in his estimation, politics covered every type of sin. His tuan had also told him so. And everything his t uan told him was law, no less important than the law instituted by any government anywhere.16 The voice of tuan was the voice of God. But now, Inah had become a young woman. She was no longer a maid for the Japanese. Once she had been a maid at a battalion barracks.17 But after one week she left without notice. Not because she wanted to break with her tradition, no. She was uncomfortable taking orders from people who were not true t uan—whose skin was not white. Her eyes were a clear blue. And this pleased her immensely. No Indonesian had eyes like those she possessed. Because of that, no Indonesian had the right to dictate to those eyes. And her nose was straight and thin. Indeed, she was really quite pretty. And for her, beauty was a woman's capital. She did not understand economics, but she knew the value of her beauty. Ai\d she would use this capital to control her destiny. She had a plan. Because it wasn't just Russia which had five-year plans. Inah had one too. Her mother's strategy—Poppi's—blossomed in her heart.

Houseboy + Maid

21

Once she worked as a maid. But her tuan, although his skin was white, was as poor as she was. So she resigned. The many promises of her tuan had raised her hopes high. But she approached these matters shrewdly. She would not trade her beauty for mere promises.

Then one day it came to pass...

There was a room made from bamboo thatching. And in this room, there could be heard an intermittent soft and out-of-tune singing, "yua olwees in mai haat." It was rather dark inside. A wooden bale took up half the room.18 Two young people sat on top of it. "Do you like working there, kak?" asked Inah with sadness in her voice.19 "Yua olwees in mai haat" ceased. Then came this reply: "I like it very much. I feel at home there. Wa/i, non Mari is now grown up and she's at Ha-bay-es. Wah, in the afternoon, lots of sinjo come over. It's wild, really wild."20 And the face of the young man who spoke shone—Sobi! "It's a lot of work," Sobi continued. "But when the sinjo leave, then I wait for the hottest part." "Your life as a houseboy is good there, kak/' Inah exclaimed jealously. "And then when t uan and njonja go to watch the moving pictures, non Mari is sure to call me. She orders me to massage her. I no longer have to bargain over which parts to massage," he added proudly. "For a houseboy it's truly a blessing, kak. But as for me . . . " Inah began dejectedly, and her beautiful blue eyes clouded over. Her pretty face grew disturbed. "I haven't found a tuan who's right for me." She hung her head. And in a low voice, as if praying, she continued, "I want so much to have a child whose eyes are bluer than my own." "That's your mistake," Sobi said, bristling. "When someone's too choosy, she ends up with nothing at all. Think of the betawi goat. The fat one. Not the sheep! The betawi goat even eats leather sandals.21 And she's proud of it. Just think! I started work only one week ago. I saw that non Mari was already grown. But in that house there was a child with slanted eyes. I didn't know whose child it was. The child was always locked up in a room. Three days later, tuan and njonja went to the movies. Non Mari called me to her room. You know what? She ordered a massage. Masjaallah . . . everywhere!22 Then she said, 'Can you get rid of this child?' 'Certainly non/ I answered and I got to do a whole lot more than give a massage." He began to sing in his soft and out-of-tune voice. Inah contemplated this sadly. She pressed her lips tight, and with mournful eyes she stared out of the window. "I learned this song from Si Husin. Oo la la, non Mari really likes my singing. When I sing she always comes close and praises me. "What a lovely voice you have," she says. All the more since I got rid of the child. I sold it to a sailor. 200 rupiah. When did you ever get money for selling a child? I used half of it to buy long pants, a shirt and a love potion from a dukun.2^ To get married—that's easy. Think about how it was for Mother! She was able to buy a house, two radios, and a gramophone. The Japanese were real dogs. They smashed her beautiful house with a tank. They said

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Tales from Djakarta

they needed to expand the airfield. The radio was confiscated, too. Now, Inah, we can't do less than Mama." Inah sighed. Then: "But you can't marry non Mari." "Who says?" Sobi snapped. "I'm good-looking! I can sing yua olwees in mai haat. And non Mari is crazy about my voice," Sobi responded fiercely. Then he smiled, full of hope. "Soon I'll have to study Dutch. Si Husin's Dutch is perfect." Inah continued to stare dolefully out the window. "But as for me . . . " she said finally, "as for me, —ah, tuan-tuan these days aren't like when I was little." "That's enough! Don't be so choosy. Take my advice," Sobi encouraged. He looked over at his little sister who remained distraught. "Yesterday I went to three different houses in Menteng.24 At the first one I met the tuan. His eyes were brown. He stank like you wouldn't believe!" she sighed again. "And at the other two, I was met by the njonja. They said almost exactly the same thing." "What did they say?" Sobi asked attentively. "They said 'I don't need a pretty blue-eyed maid.' Kak, what should I do, kak?" "Stupid," Sobi grew angry. "The first one was fine already. You're too choosy! Brown eyes, so what! And never mind the smell! You think you don't smell like rotten djengkol?25 What an attitude! You're too bold. Of course those two njonja didn't want you. You're too dolled up! Don't start that way. It's best if you dress down at first. Once they've taken you in, then it's easy. After njonja goes out, you fix yourself up. Who wouldn't find you attractive? If you weren't my own little sister ..." And he spat on the dirt floor. "But, kak, the tuan these days are all poor. They only seem rich on the surface. They're not big men, like before," Inah whined. "You're impossible!" Sobi said, annoyed. "Just think, if I have a child, even if its eyes are bluer than mine, if there's no money coming in, who'll take responsibility? I'll be the one in trouble. You? You already have a non and don't need to concern yourself with me any more. You're really lucky, kak. Especially if you get a child with blue eyes." Sobi mulled this over. After a while he said slowly: "I do have to think about my little sister. If I get to marry non Mari, I want to become Dutch. I'll go directly to His Lordship the Governor-General and ask for a car. Mornings, I'll drive to Tjilintjing with non Mari and we'll go naked on the beach."26 "But your skin is so blotchy and pocked from scabies. You wouldn't be embarrassed, kak?" asked his little sister. Sobi giggled. "When someone becomes Dutch," he said, full of self-confidence, "those scars and blotches disappear automatically! When did you ever see a Dutch person with blotches? Only Indonesians get scabies. People like us, Nah." Inah now understood. She asked further: "But the Dutch are at war now. You're not afraid of dying, kak?" Sobi laughed at that too. He replied: "You really are stupid. Don't you know that the Dutch don't fight themselves? There are lots of Indonesian soldiers who do it for them. They're paid to die for the Dutch, don't you see? If I become Dutch, I'll be sitting in an office, giving orders to my coolies." "You're going to be an important person, kak/' Inah sighed anxiously. And Sobi smiled contentedly over the beauty and grandeur of his own daydreams. But Inah's melancholy increased, along with her envy. She got down from the ball and removed a shard of mirror stuck in the bamboo-thatch wall. She sat

Houseboy + Maid

23

down again next to her brother and carefully studied her face. She smiled with satisfaction. Then suddenly she frowned. Then smiled again. And Sobi began to sing again in a soft and out-of-tune voice. Then he walked over to the window. Inah said to herself: "I really am pretty. When compared to . . . " she fell silent. She looked at her elder brother. "Nah," continued Sobi, not looking at her. "We won't have to live in this rat's nest for too much longer. I'll have my own house. When you get a tuan," he turned to face his sister, "be careful and do the right thing so that you're not disappointed. In the beginning, you just surrender to him. Then you ask for gold trinkets. They're easy to stash away. And as for your clothes, that's no problem—they'll come on their own." He moved again and sat next to his sister. Full of hopes, Inah asked: "You found me a tuan, kak ?" "Tuan Piktor is coming here soon.27 Careful how you speak to him, okay?" Inah glanced quickly at the mirror. She smiled to herself. Then she checked her teeth. She looked at her brother and asked: "What time, kak?" "Six. Four hours from now." "What about his eyes?" Inah asked hopefully, but fearing the worst. "You said look for blue eyes!" said Sobi slowly, rather annoyed. "Oh, I thought they might be yellow. I don't like yellow eyes. The yellow-eyed ones smell too," said Inah happily. She wrapped her arms around her own chest, tightly. And stretched her legs out stiffly as if she had a cramp in them. Suddenly she asked, "Don't you have to go to work, kakl" "It's only two. In about half an hour." "We'll need water for the bathroom." Sobi paid no attention. "Since I won't be home later, you'll have to attend to him yourself. Make sure to clean and straighten up this room." He sang some more. Then left. Inah looked in the mirror again. She whispered: "How blue my eyes are. Just like the eyes of Non Jetti. Sobi's non has nothing on me. But how come I'm not Dutch? What a pity. But my looks are as good as any Dutch, aren't they? Look, my nose is pointed. My skin isn't so white. But it's not pocked. If it was too white, it would be easy to get freckles like a fofofc."28 She slipped the broken bit of mirror back into its place in the bamboo thatching and stood behind the window. "I want so much to be a njail I want to have children with blue eyes! Who knows, maybe my children will become Dutch. Then I'm sure I'll enjoy life. I would have a maid—oh but she might steal my tuan. A houseboy would do. And I could drive in a car. I could go to Tjilintjing too. But I'd be embarrassed to go naked." She fell silent. Suddenly her eyes welled up with tears and she rested her forehead on the bars of the window. "But I can't speak Dutch. I can't read and write. What would I say if the tuan ordered me to read the newspaper to him? Kak Sobi can at least sing. Me?" She grew anxious and returned to the bale. Her brother returned. Inah sat next to him on the bale. She whimpered: "What do you think, kak? I can't sing like you can." "But you can sing djali-djali, can't you?" he replied offhandedly.29 "But the Dutch don't like that, do they?" Inah said with a heavy sigh. "Oh yes, I forgot. Well it's simple," Sobi cajoled. "Women don't need to know anything. If they're pretty like you—everything comes easily. Tuan Piktor's goodlooking. He doesn't need anything from you. He has a car. He has no njonja. He's

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Tales from Djakarta

rich. He works in a trading company, he says. Earlier he spoke to me like this: 'Can you find me a njaft' Straight-away I jumped on it: 'I have a little sister—'" "Really, kak?" said Inah, her happiness returning. "How could I allow my sister to fall on hard times?7' said Sobi proudly. Inah was struck dumb, overwhelmed by her own imaginings. "I don't need to know how to sing like kak Sobi," she thought. "Tuan Piktor must have a radio. Maybe six radios. Wouldn't it be nice if he played them all at once. Then lots of people would gather in front of my house to see. And I'll be standing on the verandah. They'll all whisper: 'Waft, Inah is really Dutch now/ They'll die of envy! Really! But it's their own fault if their skin is black and if their nostrils are any old way. My skin isn't so black, it's white and my nose has class." She smiled happily. "So then we'll be equals. You'll have a car, and so will I." "But I don't want to go naked at Tjilintjing, kak. I'd be too embarrassed." "Silly," Sobi derided his younger sister's ignorance. "When we're Dutch, we can't be embarrassed. We have to be bold enough to be naked. We have to be bold enough to get drunk. We have to be bold enough to snarl godperdom at people. And we should always say things like: 'After all, the Japanese are animals, they're bastards.' My tuan does all of these things. I watch everything he does and then I memorize it. It seems very easy to become Dutch. If one's clever enough like me to watch carefully and imitate, one can become Dutch in one week." Sobi gazed silently at his sister, who was spellbound by this explanation. "But it's not the same for a non as it is for a tuan, is it, kak ?" Inah asked earnestly. "Of course not. If a non acts that way—" Sobi began to explain. Suddenly he grew quiet and pensive. "Ah," he then whispered, "you still don't know how to ride a bike." But his happiness returned just as suddenly. "But tuan Piktor has a car. If you're a non, you must not say godperdom. It's enough to know how to turn the radio dial. And you can already do that. You're good at sewing. You're ready to become a non. And even more your looks are—oo la la!" And Inah laughed contentedly. From a distance the office bell could be heard, a signal that closing time had come. Sobi jumped up. He stopped in the doorway. He looked at his sister. Then he advised: "Careful when you speak to the tuan—" "Ya, kak!" Inah then leapt up too and went to the wall. She pulled out the bit of broken mirror. Once again she studied her face. "You really are pretty," she whispered. Then she laid her cheek on the mirror. She looked again. She said, "Any time now you'll be a Dutch. After all, I'm not a Djakartan. I'm not an Indonesian. Mama always told me that. In fact, in the Japanese time, Mama even said that Sobi and I were at least as respectable as the Japanese. How nice it will be to be Dutch." Suddenly her face grew troubled. She sighed: "I don't know why the Dutch are all so poor now." Just as quickly her frown disappeared. In a louder voice, "Kak Sobi knows better than me. There are no Dutch poor people. If there are any, it's only because they associate too much with Indonesians." And she was once again content. She pushed the bit of mirror back into the thatching. She stood and surveyed the room. There were still four hours to go. She would clean it later.

"Is this Sobi's house?"

Houseboy + Maid

25

Inah leapt up to answer the door. Her face was pale. Victor stood in front of her. Her voice quivered when she replied: "Yes, tuan." And the tuan entered and sat down on the batt. Inah was confused. All she could think to do was to sit on the floor and bow her head. "Are you his younger sister?" asked the white-skinned tuan. He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his forehead. "Yes, tuan" And Inah's nervousness increased. "Don't sit on the ground. Sit here next to me." And Inah didn't dare to move. The tuan moved closer to her. Gently he pulled Inah up and placed her on the baU. And Inah did not resist— And later... Actually, the secrets that hover between a man and a woman are not secrets. At some point, a woman's haughtiness and sense of self-importance takes flight. And she surrenders herself consciously to a certain man. And this has happened without a break throughout the centuries and all over the world, amongst all nationalities and living creatures. How simple life is. It's as simple as this: you're hungry and you eat, you're full, and you shit. Between eating and shitting, that's where human life is found. And each new life moves from hunger to shitting. And other lives then follow. So it goes, on and on, till the world goes to hell. And not a single person gets bored. If he gets bored, he kills himself. 1

Coen was the United East India Company's fourth governor-general (1618-23) and is usually regarded as the real founder of the Company's domination in today's Indonesia. 2 Both was the first governor-general (1609-1614). Cornells de Houtman led the first Company expedition to what is today's Indonesia—arriving in June 1596. 3 Here Pramoedya uses the word "biang" which refers specifically to female animals. 4 The Federal District of Batavia was part of a new colony-wide federal structure set up in 1947-48 by the colonial regime with the aim of undermining the revolutionary Republic of Indonesia centered in Yogyakarta. 5 Empok—"elder sister" in the Jakarta (Batavian) dialect. ^ In the colonial period, tuan was the title of respect for adult Dutch males; njonja for a married Dutch woman; and njai for the native concubine-housekeeper of a Dutchman. Kopeng was then a famous mountain resort in Central Java. 7 Pramoedya sarcastically uses the slangy mestizo acronym erpol (from the Dutch eerool ontgeslagen). 8 The Dutch word for doll or puppet is pop. ^ Surely a mestization of Guillaume. 10 Native houses in those days usually had walls of plaited bamboo. Only the colonials and upper class natives used walls made of stone or brick. 11 In the original, Pramoedya uses the word preman, which today means "gangster" or "thug," but in the 1940s still kept the connotation of its Dutch original, vrijman. 12 This refers to the short-lived agreement demarcating zones under the respective authorities of the colonial government and the revolutionary Republic, which was signed on board the American warship USS Renville in January 1948. 13 Keirei (Japanese)—a deep ceremonial bow of respect. 14 Romusha (Japanese)—forced labor. Hundreds of thousands of natives were pressganged for work mainly on military fortifications and transportation, both in the Indies and in other parts of occupied Southeast Asia. Their survival rate was very low thanks to the brutality of their military overseers. 15 At the time of the Japanese surrender on August 15,1945, the "liberation" of the Indies was the responsibility of Lord Louis Mountbatten's South-East Asia Command, headquartered in

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Tales from Djakarta

Kandy. The Dutch, whose country had only a few months earlier been liberated from Nazi occupation, were in no immediate position to reestablish colonial rule by their own military force. Hence it was the British, representing the Allies, who accepted the local Japanese surrender in the Indies. British (and colonial Indian) troops did not finally leave the country till the end of 1946. 16 Here Pramoedya sarcastically uses wei, the Dutch word for law. 17 The implication is that these barracks were those of native mercenaries enrolled in the Royal Netherlands Indies Army (KNIL), a force quite separate from the regular Dutch military. 18 A ball (balai) is a sort of cot or backless couch, usually made of bamboo. 19 Kak—"elder brother" or "elder sister" in the Djakarta dialect. 20 Non—short for nona, the colonial-era term for an unmarried Dutch girl; the term of address was carried over to refer also to Indonesian girls of a similar status. Sinjo typically referred to Dutch boys and unmarried young men. Ha-bay-es is Sobi's vernacularization of the elite Dutch colonial highschools known as HBS (Hoogere Burgerschool). 21 Betawi—native to Batavia (Djakarta). The betawi goat is a satirical invention of the author. 22 Masjaallah—Allah's will be done! A conventional expression of surprise or dismay. 23 Dukun—practitioner of traditional healing arts, dealer in magic and potions. 2 * Menteng was in those days the most fashionable quarter of Batavia /Djakarta. 25 Djengkol—a delicious, but foul-smelling fruit shaped like a bean pod. 26 Tjilintjing was in those days Djakarta's popular beach area. 27 Vernacularization of Victor. 28 Totok—pure-blooded (Dutchman), as opposed to a Eurasian. 29 Djali-djali—a popular song of old Batavia sung in the krontjong style.

II. NEWS FROM KEBAJORAN (DJAKARTA, JANUARY 1950)

Once again—as usual when night arrives—her thoughts go back to Kebajoran.1 Her attraction to that place is overwhelming. She dreams of meeting her husband, Saleh, once again; her younger sister, Chatidjah; and her mother; —she has known all of them since she was little, and she has always kept them in her heart. But there is no bridge any longer between her and Kebajoran and the people she loves. The one bridge that did exist was destroyed long ago. Destroyed by her fear. And she remains tethered to Fromberg Park.2 Tethered by a necessity. At first, she and her kind held the territory exactly in front of the presidential palace. But all along the streets, bright lights were installed that broke up the darkness there. And it was those lamps that had forced her kind to move further to the right: no more than two hundred and fifty meters. Certainly no more than two hundred and fifty meters from the palace fence. Occasionally there would be rumors that she and her kind would be raided by the police. These rumors would momentarily silence Fromberg Park. She and her kind would find another place until the rumors subsided, and would then return to the old location. The hustle and bustle of the city have now subsided. Sleepily, she sets her backside down on a concrete bench. This time she can't free herself from her memories: Kebajoran! Don't think of it; don't think of it, she advises herself. And so she starts thinking about tomorrow. The park in front of the palace is for her what Arabia is for Muslims or Palestine for Christians. If Arabia or Palestine were moved, the world would be turned upside down. But moving her territory would not upset anyone but herself and her kind. To protest to the authorities would be futile, for she is not registered as an inhabitant in the city and, officially, she is not yet even born—nor has she ever set foot in Djakarta. She and her kind remain powerless shadows of the night. And if Paris promises in her chanson: "My love fears the light of the sun," Djakarta laments its night story: "my livelihood is threatened by the radiance of electricity." Then: She sighs: she, Aminah. Her soul is worn out—yes, her soul, assuming she has one left in her body. Her body is exhausted. Sluggishly she takes off her kebaja and other nice clothes.3 She puts on the clothes she usually wears at nightfall: the worst! then lays her body down to rest on the bench. Cold! But she is used to it. She lifts her head momentarily. The lights along the palace fence still shine majestically. And the darkness and cold of the night make her feel very much alone. Around her there are no longer any of the men who usually disturb her peace. They've already gone home or to their wives. Still, she has managed to pocket twelve and a half rupiah. Already five men have needed the warmth of her body. Men with

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Tales from Djakarta

hormones run amok, seeking release. And she—stick-thin as she is—remains the arid field which receives the rain—of hormones! Diman hasn't come yet. She doesn't know where he is. Diman is a municipal garbage-collector. It was he who had brought her to Djakarta to seek a new life! Once night falls and she is lying on the bench, Diman usually comes and sleeps by her side. Yes, by her side, or to be exact, after slipping down from on top of her. And she never dares to refuse him. In fact, she feels somewhat at peace beside Diman. Her memories no longer disturb her. For a moment, she makes plans for the next day: to Tanah Abang market to buy unripe pineapple. In the past, she had always bought only ripe pineapples to fend off that burden of life: a new human being! But now her womb can no longer perform its duty. A terrible disease once penetrated her and made her barren. Now all she needs is unripe pineapple.4 All this while it's been this fruit that's fought off the disease that had once attacked her. Now she's finally fallen asleep. Her face is turned straight upward to the place where the heavens spread out. The stars are in competition with the street lights, with the lights that decorate the verandah of City Hall, and the lights of the Yen Pin restaurant, not to mention the lights that decorate the palace fence. When she was still a child, she always wanted electric lights in her room. But that wish has never been fulfilled until now. Until now—when she no longer needs even a handful of rays from any man-made light. She awakens with indifference and allows the cold night to fondle her ankles. Then cold creeps up further and further: first to her thighs and then up again, almost to her stomach. Even in her dreams she knows: this is the moment when Diman has come. Even in her sleep she knows what's coming: the heavy, hot mass that presses on her whole body. But she doesn't care. She remains quiet, with eyes closed and body motionless. She is so tired, so bereft of energy. She only moves her body for men who can pay her. At best: one ringgitl5 Anything more is extraordinary, generous. And frequently, she hears in the portals of her dream the thud of the heavy body falling into a sprawl at her side, followed by sighs and gasps. Then the night carries out its duty: empty of all feelings.

The roar of traffic has no power to wake her. Her body needs more rest than she has been able to give it. Her mouth is still open and her eyelids hang heavy. A line of drool is drying on her cheek. Her hair is disheveled, and even in deep sleep her breathing is short and painful. Only the rays of the sun beginning to burn her skin compel her to view the world from the window of her eyes. Diman is no longer at her side—he has gone to work. Sluggishly, she rubs her eyes. At that moment, her whole being seems like a portrait of herself. A portrait that shows the panorama of her history from non-being into being and up to this moment when she is slumped on the concrete bench in Fromberg Park. A portrait that shows what will befall her from now until she returns to non-being. Carrying the bundle of clothes she brought last night to market her flesh, she crosses the street and goes down to the Kali Besar to bathe.6 On the way she encounters all sorts of people with different faces. She no longer recognizes the dozens among them who have enjoyed her body. And they don't recognize her either. What does it matter? She doesn't need them. She only needs their money.

News from Kebajoran

29

They don't need her either. They only need her flesh, and that, too, only at certain times, not all the time. The yellowish water of the river always refreshes her body somewhat. Her strength crawls back up and enters every nerve and muscle. She takes out her comb and straightens her hair. As she is resting, sitting by the edge of the river, she notices at a distance, near the junction of the railroad, a body among the tens and hundreds of other bodies—a body that she knows only too well. A body that has all this while haunted her thoughts: Chatidjah! She still remembers the clothes that now cover that body—her own clothes that she had once given to Chatidjah. That kebaja had now lost its original color. She slips into the water again, making herself as inconspicuous as possible. Why be afraid? Why be afraid? she says to herself. She's my little sister! My very own little sister! The same little sister as before. And hurriedly she climbs back to land and dresses. Now she climbs up the bank of the Kali Besar, intercepting Chatidjah at the edge of the tree-lined street. In front of her, a radio is blaring in a radio repair-shop. Not her world! She has no time for dance music. Traffic roars by in front of her. Not her world! Government officials in neatly pressed clothes are streaming into their offices. Not her world! Only Chatidjah is part of her world. Chatidjah is grown up now. Her breasts have filled out. Yes, it is obvious from the play of light on her body. Chatidjah is grown up. And her breasts have indeed filled out. She feels a sudden pang of sadness. Her own skin has become too loose for her body. And she has no way back to the world she once knew. It is as if her kampung—Kebajoran—has moved to heaven. And the family to which she once belonged has also gone to heaven. She observes her sister's body intently as it draws near. I too had a full figure like that. Only more beautiful. And more elegant. And more men desired me. And I managed much more than she could—much more. Ah, Chatidjah could not cook, and I was best at it. But what's the use of all that. This is what I am now, whereas she still has a choice. I chose—and it was the wrong choice. The distance between Aminah and Chatidjah narrows. Her heart begins to beat fast, extraordinarily fast. How often has she told herself: don't listen to any news from Kebajoran! It will only break your heart. But now that counsel lies in pieces, crushed by old memories. Memories of her kampung and her family who have gone to heaven.7 She had wanted her life to go straight. But now it's all twisted out of shape. And she wants to straighten it out once more. "Tidjah!" she calls out to the girl. And the girl she calls to, the girl in the worn-out clothes, notices her. Chatidjah doesn't recognize her. She no longer recognizes the sister who for years has been falling to pieces, burned up by the night wind, burned up by memories and crushed by her own heart. Her face is thin and sallow, her backside flat, her eyes clouded with cataracts and her skin as if covered with mold. Chatidjah at once tries to get away. "Chatidjah! Don't you recognize me any more?" she says in a voice that doubts even itself. Chatidjah thinks about this. She's momentarily startled. Then fear, disgust and disappointment—all dance in her eyes. "Minah! Aminah! Is it you, kak?" a happy voice that immediately turns sour with hatred. Her eyes move rapidly from the hair to the filthy, ragged clothes. And now

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distrust is visible in her gaze. "It's been a long time since we've heard from you/' Then in a cruel voice she explodes: "Are you a beggar, Minah?" "Me?" All this while Aminah has never been sure which is better, to beg or to become a shadow of the night as she has been forced to be for so many months. Suddenly: "Are you here in Djakarta on holiday, Tidjah?" "Shopping, Minah/' she says, proud to be able to show off. "For clothes, for a red silk dress, for two kain, and for lipstick."8 "So you're getting married?" A voice floating, eager to land. "Yes, I'm getting married, Minah. In two weeks," she crows in victory. "Your life will be happy," said Minah, with a sadness that borders on envy. "At least better than before. But it's only now that I'm really feeling happy. Buying red silk, kain, and lipstick. Kak, Saleh gave me the money." "Saleh? Why doesn't he give it to me, too? Me? His wife?" "It's your own fault. Why did you run away?" comes the judgment. Aminah sighs. But her sigh is heard by no human ear, not even her own. She laments in a tone that begs for sympathy. "Who could stand it, Tidjah? Who could stand it? I told Kak Saleh not to sell the house and our farm. It was our lifeblood, our livelihood. But he said: we have to surrender our possessions to the government, Minah, if we don't want trouble. So he sold the house and the land on which it stood. Three thousand rupiahl But after that we could not make rice-liquor and sugar again. And I could not sell rudjak anymore because we had no cassava and hot pepper to harvest.9 And we couldn't buy another farm because no one was selling." "I'm off to Pasar Baru/' Tidjah insists.10 Aminah feels a stab of pain. She tries again to get some sympathy. "Wait! Wait one moment." Fear now shines in Tidjah's eyes. But she doesn't resist. And Aminah continues with her story. "So there was no produce whatsoever, Tidjah. And Kak Saleh could not bear to live in someone else's house. Nor could I. Who can bear to stay in another's house, if they've once owned one of their own? Then Kak Saleh started gambling every day. The money vanished. The debts were too heavy. I myself had no capital. Neither did Saleh. So I went with Diman to Djakarta to try my luck here." "It's your own fault. Why did you run away?" "Is Saleh still gambling, Tidjah?" she deflects the question. "He sells sate. And I make the sauce," says Tidjah.11 "If that's the case, you're going to marry him." Chatidjah drops her gaze to the ground. Aminah likewise. From time to time passersby stop to listen, then continue on their way. Each woman is afraid of her own reality and truth. Finally: "If that's the case, you're going to marry him," Aminah repeats. "It's your own fault, why did you run away?" Tidjah also repeats herself. "Diman's working as a municipal garbage-collector. Our home is under the trees in the middle of the park." She directs her gaze toward Fromberg Park. This lament does not arouse any feelings of sympathy in Chatidjah. She cannot relate to Aminah's life. Aminah means nothing to her.

News from Kebajoran

31

"When it rains, we're drenched/' Aminah continues. Chatidjah is still empty of feelings. Her one thought is to get away from Aminah as fast as possible. To get to Pasar Baru as fast as possible to buy red silk, kain, and lipstick. "Sometimes I get the chills and sometimes I get a fever. And Diman works. I don't know where he works. And there's no one I know that I can ask to find him. So I'm left to fend for myself under the trees." A voice that truly longs to hit its mark. "You don't want to go back to Kebajoran?" Chatidjah tests her. Now the door to Aminah's desires is thrown open. Quickly she says, "Of course, of course I do." Chatidjah draws in a short, violent breath, which lodges in her chest. Seeing that Chatidjah is losing patience, Aminah quickly tries again. "But who would take us in any more? Our land is now the government's. When I left, a school had already been built there. And now you want to marry Saleh, and he wants to marry you." "It's your own fault," says Tidjah. "Is Mama angry with me, Tidjah? "She curses you." "Curses me." Aminah memorizes the words. "She curses you and hopes you die covered in flies." A pair of clear teardrops forms at the edges of Aminah's eyes. "And if you dare to return, she is going to beat you with an alu."12 Aminah remembers the alu that she had used so often to pound corn while she was still Saleh's wife. Till its tip was all yellow. And then she'd make corn porridge and sell it on the sidewalk. My head will be crushed if I'm beaten with that alu, thinks Aminah. Another pair of teardrops peeks out from the corner of her eyes, emerges, and rolls down onto her ragged kebaja. Her chest feels empty and hollow, pleading for something to fill it. But it won't be filled with any word from Tidjah. She sees now that there is no way back. And Kebajoran seems more fabulous than the heaven she has heard about so often. Something makes her grab hold of a tree by the roadside. Her eyes roam down in the direction of the Kali Besar below. Tidjah loses patience. She leaves. "I wasn't going to ask you for money, Tidjah," she says. But Tidjah continues to walk on. "You can have Kak Saleh, Tidjah. I don't want to grab him from you." And Tidjah continues to walk on. For a moment Aminah feels like holding her sister back. But not another word comes out of her mouth. Moreover, she doesn't have the strength to hold her back physically. Tidjah moves farther and farther away. Aminah can only follow her sister with her longing, her gaze, her envy, and whatever else remains of her beyond her own body. Chatidjah is now lost from sight—disappearing behind the doors of a train. Aminah almost screams out to call her sister back. But she doesn't have the strength even to do that. Slowly she leaves for the one place that has for so long given her a space in which to live—Fromberg Park, no more than two hundred and fifty-five meters from the palace fence. She drops her body down on the bench. Now she sobs all alone. She pays no attention to the hot sun that burns her hair and skin. Her chest feels increasingly empty and increasingly in need of something to fill it. She thinks of Saleh, her husband—her own Saleh. Saleh is still her husband. Saleh who had gone

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astray, but when he returned to the right path, came not for her but for her younger sister who is still a virgin. The more she thinks about it, the more she feels that Saleh is now a stranger—a man she shouldn't know any more. And her Mama who wants to hit her with the alu. All have become strangers—they exist, but no longer in her hopes. Today she won't go to Tanah Abang market to buy the unripe pineapple. Her thoughts, her regrets, her reflections all make her so tired. The busy traffic that crowds around the park roars as usual. She's lost her appetite for noodles at Tanah Abang. The electric tram has passed by many times. She has lost her desire to ride it. Finally, late in the morning, Diman returns from work. Then: "Why are your eyes so red, Minah?" Now she realizes that Diman cannot protect her from the fear and emptiness she feels burning in her chest. And there is nothing and no one who can protect her. The grass under her feet spreads out green. Here and there are some bald patches. The sky is blue and once in a while, the wind blows softly. But everything around her, including her own self, is now empty of all feeling. Empty! And nothing is coming to fill that empty space. Like a stone hitting another stone. "Are you crying, Minah? You regret what's happened? I know I've done you wrong, but you too are guilty of agreeing to come with me. Both of us are to blame." The man's voice is empty—an emptiness that drives her mad. Without realizing it, she had carried this emptiness with her ever since she left her family and wandered away with this young man next to her. She had only grown aware of the emptiness when Diman lost his passion for her. Once again she tries to tell herself not to think of any news from Kebajoran. But she wants to know. She longs to hear the news of her former yard which she still loves, of Saleh, of her Mama and of the atmosphere in her house as it had been when they were all together. But all of that has now gone to heaven. She sprawls her body on the grass beneath the trees. Once again she becomes a portrait of everything she really is. The city traffic moves on. On and on. Soon night will come and men will come by the dozens to Fromberg Park, looking for women like her—needing the warmth of her body. In the open world, they refuse to recognize her, but in the world of darkness they come looking for her. Aminah longs to return to Kebajoran. But she doesn't dare. She is afraid of Saleh, of the alu, of her Mama's curse, of her Mama herself. And when this time of her life will end or change, she has no means of knowing. Even to imagine it is beyond her.

A few days later she hears Diman's whisper in the dark of a cloudy and overcast night: "I met Saleh just now. He said he is going to open a new restaurant in the suburbs. He said his wife is pregnant." Aminah opens her eyes as wide as possible to shrug off her sleepiness. The emptiness in her chest now lays her whole spirit waste. "If only you had not brought me here . . . " "We can't return to the past, Minah."

News from Kebajoran

33

And now quite suddenly Aminah wants to have a child. "Wouldn't it be nice if I had a baby?" she sighs. "Tomorrow I become a foreman, Minah." Just for a moment, Aminah's eyes shine. But then the gleam dies. "Aren't you happy?" "If you become a foreman..." "We could rent a small hut and live like normal people," Diman urges her. "And perhaps we could even have a child." "If you become a foreman and get a small hut, you should get married to a good woman." Aminah's words provide Diman with an inspiration, and he doesn't continue with his promises. The two creatures fall silent. The siren of a fire-engine attracts their attention. The engine disappears into the night along with its siren. If a woman prostitutes herself, she is considered evil and is given no chance to become decent again. But if a man goes to a prostitute no one objects and he is still free; he can even boast of it in public. Aminah whispers this into the night which is even more silent than Diman. And these two homeless creatures, who have no God as generous as the God of the rich and who have no country or nationality—the two of them sleep embracing each other to ward off the cold and to shut out the anxieties of the next day which menace their thoughts. Now the wind is blowing cruelly. In the sky the lightning cracks fearsomely. But for them thunder is too ordinary an event—it's not enough to wake them up. And when the rain starts to fall heavily, the pair jump up and run to an abandoned gas station. There they continue their sleep among women like Aminah and men like Diman. Thick dust blows in through the broken glass of the windows. And through the windows two of the dozens of lamps decorating the palace fence are visible. After this night Diman never returns. Ah, Aminah has known all along what would happen to her relationship with Diman. Didn't Diman's last words ring hollow and weightless, not the sincere expression of a willing heart? Now she wanders off all alone, becoming a shadow in the night. She grows weaker every day. Her cough gets hoarser and she can't stand up straight any more. Her back is hunched over. Her face is always ashen. To hide it, she cakes it with powder and a layer of rouge, with red lipstick to cover bluish lips, all of which she's bought in Tanah Abang.13 Her face now scares even herself. And as the months crawl by, every man who approaches her first talks for a long while. She knows the reason why: they want to look closely at her face. So that, one night, a young man shouts at her: "It's too bad I didn't bring a handkerchief to cover your face. If I had, I'd have wanted you." She realizes that day by day she is losing her feminine attractiveness. The powder and rouge don't help any more. Not even her perfume helps. And when on two consecutive nights, no men approach her because the moon is shining brightly with its yellow rays, she finally follows the example of her friends when in desperation—by offering up the last of her dignity. "Well, O.K. then. You can use my mouth." She remembers that four of her friends never returned to the Park after performing this act. She doesn't know where they are now, and so she isn't sure they didn't die from doing it...

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And since that night, she has worked with her mouth, with her tongue and what is left of her teeth. At first she didn't know what to do with the liquid she sucked, which was sticky on her tongue. Once or twice she spat it out, but finally it entered her belly through her throat. After this she realizes that not a drop of what is called honor remains in her broken body. Her hopes of straightening her life out are now extinguished. Well, as long as someone is willing to give her a ringgit a day she is willing to do anything and everything that her strength and habits allows. But as time passes, fewer and fewer men come to her and finally, no one comes at all. Her gaunt and sunken face, her wispy hair and her sagging skin make it difficult for them to tell Aminah from a monkey.

One bright and sunny day, she no longer even has the strength to get up from her bench. She is too hungry. Her throat and stomach feel like they're on fire. Day after day, she sprawls in the heat of the sun. And water seeps constantly from her mouth. Sometimes she coughs weakly and pus oozes from between her tongue and palate. Her vocal chords are in ruins and sound no longer comes from her mouth. Once in a while someone passes by. She tries to ask for help by moving one of her fingers, but nobody stops. Perhaps they don't know, and maybe they don't care. At night, everyone shies away from that body, taking home with them a sense of horror. And the next day when the sun begins to shine, Aminah hovers between two worlds. Her eyes still take in her surroundings but her spirit can no longer do so. Now a man approaches her; he examines her for a moment, then shakes his head. Aminah's eyes are able to catch a glimpse of his body. And to her it seems as if Saleh has come to take her home. Although her vocal cords are in ruins, she still manages to say to him: "Kak, please forgive all my sins. Please forgive me. Take me home." And the man's lips seem to say to her: ''Wait a little, Minah. Let me go get a carriage to take you home."14 "Yes, go. But don't take too long. I'm thirsty." Then he leaves as well. Aminah closes her eyes while she waits. She no longer feels the sun's hot jabs. And still Saleh hasn't come back. But now she forgives him. At last Saleh returns bringing some people with him. "Are these the regular customers at your restaurant?" she asks. Saleh nods. "What? Is Diman helping you now?" Some men in white shorts lift her onto a stretcher. And Aminah's body sways gently back and forth a bit. Then she's placed in an ambulance. "Saleh, this carriage is really nice." "This is my own carriage, Minah. From the profits of the restaurant." "Why is there an alu in this carriage." "It's Mama's gift to you. When will you pound corn again?" "Is that electric light up there for me?" Suddenly Saleh changes into her father. And she resumes: "Father, aren't you going to the rice fields?"

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"The harvest is over and the rains haven't yet come. Only after the first rains can the field be plowed. Then the field should be left to the sun. Only when the rains come a second time, can the fields be plowed again. That way the harvest will be good." "What will you buy me if the harvest is good, Father?" "What would you like?" "A sewing-machine, of course!" Aminah laughs. Suddenly all the walls grow mouths, pucker their lips in her direction, and shout at her brutally: "You monkey! Where do you think you're going? All you do is dirty the beauty of this park." Aminah is furious when she hears this and screams: "Diman. Diman, they're all abusing me. Diman! Diman! Where are you? Where?" But still Diman does not appear. Her fear and anger rage wildly. Her body shakes. Her eyes glare. She struggles to use her eyes to see. And the force that pulls her eyeballs up is so strong! But Aminah does not give up. Finally she manages to use her eyes once more. In front of her a blackwater swamp stretches out, its banks broken here and there with lalang.15 But the carriage she's riding in moves fast and smooth. Once in a while the air changes colors: blue, gray, red—all sorts of colors. Sometimes in the sky there are terrible wars fought with many different kinds of weapons. Suddenly it all disappears. From afar she hears her Mama calling: "Aminah! Aminah! Saleh's getting married to your little sister. Won't you come and witness it?" Once again Aminah feels resentful. She'd like to provoke her Mama. But all of a sudden, before her, she sees the house and yard she loves so dearly, with its toddy palm-lined fence. A wooden house with dirt floors standing calmly in the middle of the yard. That was the house where she and Saleh once lived so peacefully. Then this delightful, calm, vision disappears. Bulldozers and tractors arrive like monsters about to claw her to pieces. And then dozens of roaring trucks arrive bringing wood and stone and sand and cement, like a herd of wild buffalo wanting to trample her to death. Aminah screams. The changes come more and more rapidly. Picture after picture passes before her eyes. At last everything is calm again. Aminah sees Saleh getting out of the carriage, then Diman, then Chatidjah, her Mama, her Father, and their neighbors. She screams out to each of them. But in a roaring chorus they shout back: "We are going to the city. You're off to Kebajoran, aren't you?" And the carriage rolls on. Fast and smooth. Now she is alone. And the carriage keeps on rolling ... rolling . . . rolling ... rolling. And she is still all alone. And the carriage keeps on rolling—and will not stop at any place whatsoever... 1

At the beginning of the 1950s, Kebajoran was still well outside Djakarta proper, separated from the city by about ten kilometers of orchards and banana plantations. 2 Fromberg Park was a small area for vendors and pleasure-seekers located on the northern side of today's Merdeka Square. 3 Kebaja— formal blouse.

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Tales from Djakarta

At the time, Indonesian women commonly believed that unripe pineapple could induce miscarriages, while ripe pineapple was thought to increase sexual readiness. In this passage, the two effects of pineapple on a woman have been reversed. 5 Ringgit—coin or note worth two-and-a-half rupiah. 6 A canal in old downtown Djakarta. ^ Kampung—usually lower-class urban neighborhood, but also a rural hamlet. ** Kain—traditional wrap-around skirt, usually made of batik. 9 Rudjak—dish made of slices of unripe fruit seasoned with chili peppers, palm-sugar and fishpaste. 10 Pasar Baru, located northeast of the palace, was then the most expensive shopping area in Djakarta. 11 Sate—kebabs made of lamb or chicken marinated in a spicy sauce. 12 Alu—tool for pounding grain. 13 Tanah Abang, a district just to the west of the palace, was a shopping-area for the poorer classes. 14 In the original, the word is kereta, referring to a carriage or cart, usually drawn by a horse or horses. Still a common form of cheap transportation in the Djakarta of the 1950s. 15 Lalang—a very tough grass-like weed.

III. STRANDED FISH (DJAKARTA, JULY 1950)

In this story, Idulfitri will get an inspiration after enduring eleven hours of hunger. Almost the whole of this story is enacted by him, while However—a puny, scrawny but agile youth—merely helps him play the principal role.1 Actually, the story of this Idulfitri isn't really important, because even for him the history of his daily life all this while hasn't been important. For him, everything has glided along its rails. At first he was duly impressed when he had to begin his new life. For a few days he made some effort to overcome it, but after a while no more. Well, then, let the story begin— Along with the same old sun rising on the eastern horizon, the history of humankind on earth advances with new activity. After stepping into thousands and thousands of days, Idulfitri no longer sees what the importance is of dew hanging from morning leaves and grass. Nor does he know wherein lies the sweetness of the red clouds fanning into purple overhead. And no longer does he comprehend what is so powerful in the rhythmic beating of mosque drums and the ringing of church bells. But even that is not his own fault. Perhaps he does know of beauty, but these days his thoughts and feelings are absorbed in other matters so that he has no opportunity to use them for anything that does not produce a profit. For these past few months his life has been a trinity, a machine revolving around three pivots: food, money, and women. Everything else is a civil case.2 And he does not revolt against his circumstances. Throughout his life enemies have always become faithful friends, and, conversely, friends, faithful and otherwise, have become his enemies. Take, for example, that undersized, scrawny youth, However. Idulfitri doesn't know why everything has happened this way. He has never gotten the chance to ask, of himself or anyone else, why things have turned out the way they have. This period of months dancing on their three axes gives him a new idea: everything is already settled, no matter if you want to throw a fit like a demon. And in the end he even convinces himself: everything is settled already. On the dot of six o'clock in the morning he stammers awake. He is hungry. It's always like that. But this time even more so: he has no money, no food, no coffee, and no woman either. After washing his pretty face, that most valuable of his possessions, he leaves his pavilion on Secretariat Street feeling nauseated and vengeful. Naturally, he wants revenge on all those who have already had breakfast. The four young men who live with him didn't come home last night. But he never cares whether or not they come back. They must have slept at Senen, he decides.3 And even if those four bums croaked right here in front of me, I don't think I'd care.

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For now —he cares more about himself. Finally he realizes why he's so hungry this morning. It was yesterday's harrowing experiences that had exhausted his spirit and that body of his that he so loved. All his attention had been concentrated on Mr. Tjong's jeep. And that concentration had made him forget himself: he had no money, he hadn't eaten yet, and he was exhausted from prowling the city of Djakarta. If he had in the past considered everything settled, and for all this time has maintained this view, then today for the first time he is rebelling against his own ideas and conclusions. "No, all this is not yet settled," he whispers. "When the flood has receded," he repeats for the umpteenth time his own words—words which he always memorizes and re-memorizes when he is in a bad mood—"just count how many fish lie stranded on the shoals. And those creatures are helpless because they are separated from water. And I—I am one of those creatures." When he's unhappy an old feeling returns. This: he feels like a neglected hero. Even now he feels he is a hero still. All this time he has lived by his daring, and to him anyone who lives like this qualifies as a hero. And because he is a grumbler, this time, too, he grumbles in his head: "If only I hadn't joined the struggle, but had joined in robbing the Japanese and then quietly gone into business, how peaceful my heart would now be. What are you now? I'll tell you myself: you're a hero gone astray! You're a weak, ignorant creature, deprived of a place in this independent society for which you fought."4 He persuades himself that he is a weak person. And he doesn't feel hurt by his own accusation, even though he would throw a raging fit if someone else were to accuse him this way. Someone else... like, for example, However. He walks slowly, his head bowed, looking at the asphalt of the road. As he is about to cross a main street, he glances to the right and sees the palace wall. Toughlooking soldiers guard the gateway. But he doesn't even care about that any more. He's tired of it. He has lost the power to be impressed by grandeur and, besides, what was the use of it to the country, and to his own stomach? Now he crosses the intersection and heads towards Deca Park.5 For a moment he looks at the pictures. Then: "Toad! You're nothing but a toad," he swears to himself. "An old toad. A toad under a coconut shell, for that matter!"6 Sometimes he feels there are two of him in these situations: one self that does the swearing and the other self that gets sworn at. Once again he swears, this time not in the depths of his head but out loud: "Toad! You're nothing but a toad!" "Right. You really are a toad!" a sharp voice sounds from behind him. That voice arouses his rage. And he feels obliged to know who it is who is cursing him so openly. He finds out: at his side stands However. He gazes ferociously at Ws friend, the puny scraggier with his agile movements. And he notices that However's eyes are a bit swollen and bloodshot. Right away he says accusingly: "Where did you go last night?" "So you're suspicious." "Your eyes are red." "I only slept an hour. Then the alarm clock startled me. And I couldn't bring myself to let you grumble on for three or four hours."

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39

Now the two actors in this story are walking along. They arrive at the lobby of a movie theater and observe the posters pasted on the walls. But they are not interested. 'These pictures of naked thighs and kisses are useless to hungry people," Idulfitri says, resuming their discussion. "You hungry?" Idulfitri nods angrily. "You got carried away," However says, to make Idulfitri lose heart. "You should have just taken the five hundred from the Chinaman's hand. But you really did get carried away. You let your anger run away with you. And you bashed your source of wealth and well-being on the forehead with a monkey-wrench." Now his voice fills with regret. "And the guy fell sideways across the running-board, then his head hit the hub. He stopped moving! Maybe his skull got cracked." "Maybe he died." "It's quite possible." "And that adds one more problem I'll need to settle with Djibril."7 However shoots him an angry look. But his mouth says nothing. At this hour of the morning people have not yet showed up to inspect the posters of naked thighs from abroad. Even people going to the office are still few. It's just a little after six. However laments again: "If you had accepted the money, you wouldn't be hungry like you are. And I can't help you now." "Are you hungry too?" However nods. "Let's sell our shirts," Idulfitri suggests. Suddenly However assumes an older man's demeanor, making use of his ability to alter his face. And like a loving father to his child, he says with deep concern: "You only have the right to sell your own shirt after you've gone hungry for ten hours. At the very least!" Then However moans with regret. "And we pushed and pushed for so long. That son-of-a-bitch lemon of a jeep. And you refused the money just like that, as if you really were rich. The amazing thing is that I backed you up and left the Chinaman's garage with the swagger of a tycoon. I don't understand it at all." With a voice like a hurricane heard from the mouth of a well, Idulfitri now gives free rein to the rebellion rampaging through his head: "We'd been casing Tjong's jeep so long. How many hours? At least five hours. We pushed it out of the garage. It took more than an hour to open the garage door. What did that fucking fence then say? 'I'm sorry, sir, I really can't take this jeep.'" "He's a real son of a bitch." "I had a strong urge to fatten his lip right then." "Of course!" "And you made a fist," However continues, "and the Chinaman kept backing towards the row of cars under repair." Idulfitri croaks harshly with the voice of a toad pleading for rain. "Who wouldn't feel pissed off? Eight hours of work. Sweat pouring down like rain, and he says, as if it's no big deal, 'That's right, sir, if this is the jeep, I don't dare take it. This is my own nephew's jeep,' he says." "Then the monkey-wrench flew to his forehead," However reminds him.

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Both are quiet now. Their eyes drift like butterflies towards the thighs of white people hanging on the walls. "Maybe," thinks Idulfitri, "if I had some food in my stomach again, I could understand the beauty of this leg art created by people of refined sensibilities—creations full of naked thighs and kisses. Why aren't there any pictures showing how hunger twists and turns in my guts?" For so long now he has sworn at hundreds of people. But this time his curses are aimed especially at artists and actors. And he gives a reason for going on with his grumbling: "Beauty: naked thighs, and kisses are beauty. If that's true, then whatever arouses the sexual instinct is beauty." Then he attacks the explanation he has just given. Or one could use words more beautiful than beauty, philosophical words: absolute truth. He smiles sweetly, a smile of admiration for the elegant construction of his own thoughts. "You've got hope," However says accusingly. Idulfitri's smile vanishes in the same instant, rushing back inside his head. And his voice is heard saying: "This hunger of mine isn't yet strong enough to inspire fantasies and plans. All you can give me are regrets, advice, and accusations." "The better for you," However weighs in. "Without them you'd go hungry every day, and I'd be the only one forced to listen to your moaning and groaning and all that grumbling of yours." "I wonder," Idulfitri says, requesting attention, "Just suppose I lifted my trouserleg up so that my entire thigh was showing, couldn't there be someone who would want to watch and pay?" "Just suppose!" "Yes, just suppose. Suppose I copied those actors of the silver screen." However's nostrils flare in and out like an overheated goat's. Then he whines, and whines again: "Just suppose! Just suppose! In this world there is no place left for 'just suppose.' Our hunger can't be cured by 'just suppose there were food.' With 'just suppose' you'll get the most beautiful thoughts and lofty daydreams, and two days later you'll be stiff." "Stiff?" "Of course, stiff—dead of starvation." "You really are a bastard!" Idulfitri swears. "For these last six months we've been genuine low-life bastards, and as you've said with that mouth of yours which can carve out sentences: 'in the past we were bastards for the sake of country and ideals, but now we're bastards for our own sakes.'" Idulfitri beams at this praise—acknowledgment of the beauty of his words. However continues: "Maybe it's because you're clever at placing the words 'just suppose' that you've acquired the ability to form such fine sentences. I still remember an even better sentence of yours: 'When the flood has receded—'" "'—just count how many fish lie stranded on the shoals/" Idulfitri continues proudly. "There'll come a time when you can't bitch and moan anymore," However complains, "when you can't use the words 'just suppose' any more. And when it comes, I see you like a dried-out bedbug, crushed between the slats of a bed."

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Idulfitri curses his vilest curses. But he pronounces none of them. However is too thick-skinned. Curses won't anger or even offend him. He drifts his eyes back to the pictures of naked thighs and people kissing. Those artists and performers, they're too full of themselves; perhaps they're not aware how the soul flies to God's side, ringed by angels, when a starving person smells sate being grilled. And how his soul heaves like the sea in January when he hears the safe-seller offering his wares. And how bewildered he's made by it, bewildered to the very bottom of his belly. But with his soul he goes off to the supernatural world, like the prophets ascending to God's highest realm. "You have a new plan," However says accusingly. Idulfitri eyes his friend with an irritated expression. He says curtly: "Your eyes are red!" "Right, the whole night I slept only one hour." "Your body is nothing but skin and bones. I can make it so you won't be able to walk for four hours," Idulfitri threatens. Then he grumbles: "When you're doing well, you're like the dried-meat of stingy grandmothers.8 But if you're hungry like now, you latch onto the back of my neck like a leech." "Are you angry, Fitri?" Fitri doesn't answer, and instead turns his back on his companion. "You get angry at me so often," says However, probing his companion's mood. But Idulfitri goes on ignoring him. "Fitri," However finally says, sulking, "in my heart of hearts, I've always believed that you're my leader. You're the torch in this pitch-dark life of mine. Haven't I often said that to you? Have you forgotten?" Then However draws close to his companion and tries to catch his eye. At last he continues: "You know very well that you're my leader. You know exactly what state I'm in." "This time you can store your hopes in the kitchen cupboard." However says remorsefully to his resentful companion: "I didn't mean anything bad, Fitri. I've always been your faithful friend. And as long as you're my leader, my torch in times of pitch-darkness, it's you that I follow. Never mind that I'm like an old krontjong singer who never learned to read.9 What do you think, is it like that or not?" "Your music is krontjong music. Hearing krontjong makes me sick. Especially when the singer is an old woman, illiterate, and giving advice in her song. And you," he points to However, "you're just like that old illiterate krontjong singer. What do you think, is it like that or not?" "Yes, that's how it is, Fitri." "Now, what else do you want?" "But you'll always be the leader in my heart." "Sure, of course. Hunger makes everything extraordinarily beautiful. And hooligans like these can suddenly become docile sheep." However feels cornered. "That's right, Fitri. Last night I didn't go anywhere. I went straight to sleep. But these damned eyes refused to close. And these damned thoughts kept on wandering. So I read the paper." "I've always known that you like to read the paper." "But this time there's news that gives me hope."

42

Tales from Djakarta

Idulfitri lets his gaze drift back to the pictures of naked thighs and kissing couples on the walls of Deca Park. He thinks: how pleasant, to be a woman. When they show some thigh, they get some money. And the thighs of these actresses become love idols in the souls of men and women—tens of millions of men and women—all of whom have thighs of their own. And they can kiss each other, too. But money is truly damned. Maybe it's because they have the right to receive money when they show their thighs that they're entitled to become love idols in the souls of their audiences. And now Idulfitri curses himself: "And now I'm hungry—and will stay hungry!" Without being asked, However proceeds with his story: "I've got an inspiration," he begins. "Inspiration?" Idulfitri almost screeches with amazement. "I thought only prophets could receive inspiration. You too? You, who for these past six months have been a bandit at my side? And when will you get a sign from Heaven?"10 However smiles proudly. "Look, Fitri, the nationalists have all been chased out of the Chinese mainland," However begins the story of his revelation. "The Communists have won the field. Also in Eastern Europe." "I know that from the papers." "Yes, but you don't understand." "I can read the newspapers for myself." "But you don't understand how events are connected." "Do you take me for a numbskull?" However ignores the rebuff and continues: "It's true that you know something about Communism. That I admit, but just a pinch." "You've become so arrogant now." "You also know about politics, about economics—learning you've gleaned from books and anything else you've managed to read. From the time you learned to read to the age of twenty-eight!" "You're good at making speeches, like Sukarno." "Some day you'll study under me." "Crab!" "Listen. I'll go on with my story about you." Idulfitri yields and listens. "But you don't like to read the papers. That's the problem." "It's always the same old stuff in the papers. The only difference is the date and place." However bursts out laughing and slaps his friend's shoulder. Idulfitri isn't angry. He has already let all his annoyance towards However sail away. He listens indifferently to his companion's twittering. "So you think dates and places aren't important? But if right now, right here, a murder takes place, even an ordinary murder, then it's important. Because—listen!— because the person killed is you." "Toad!" shouts Idulfitri. "So now you know how important dates and places are. Ha, I know you realize your ignorance now. The newspapers gave me this inspiration, too." "What's your inspiration?" "Let me give you an introduction first." "Yeah, go ahead."

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"The hungry are beginning to win out." "Those who fatten their own bellies begin to be driven from their pastures," Idulfitri chimes in. "You're not fair!" "So? When we raise water-buffaloes, they end up sacrificing everything for those who raise them. That's only fair." "So the fat-bellied class are your buffaloes?" "Yes, at first we let them eat their fill, so they're strong and fat and vigorous, then we ride them, we command them to plow our fields." "All of them?" "All of them. But, all I feel is my hungry stomach. Hunger that destroys my happiness day by day. My own hunger. Your hunger I can't feel. We steal their things one by one." Idulfitri finally launches, without preface, into his companion's ear, a fairy-tale about his bicycle, his jeep—even though his first effort had failed. "And you already took care of one of them with a monkey-wrench," However adds encouragingly. As a result of his own fairy-tale, Idulfitri becomes genuinely happy. "And last of all," However continues to prompt, "you'll chase them out of their respective pastures. It'll be you, then, who'll be king of all the pastures," However laughs happily. Now it is Idulfitri who gets an inspiration, and gives it voice. "But we two are the hungry who haven't yet won out. We haven't even tried to enter the arena. We haven't even formed a group." Finally, slowly and gloomily, Idulfitri continues: "We're too late, time has passed us by. We should have started forming a group long ago." "We can't do that, either," However chips in. "Long ago is dead and gone." "Yeah." "But we're not defeated yet," However amends. "And we did win once." "Win? Win once?" Idulfitri tests the truth of However's words. "Why not? Of course we did. We once swiped a woman's bike, even though it was only a damned Janco." Hearing this, Idulfitri withdraws his gaze from However's face, and his own expression is painted with disgust and nausea. "That's not a victory. With even one victory we wouldn't need to live this homeless life any more. For example—if only that damned Chinaman had bought the jeep." However pays no attention and goes on with his chattering: "No less than fifty foreign books with deluxe bindings." And although However knows that Idulfitri's interest is beginning to wane, he keeps on, spinning a tale more to himself than to his friend. "And one Fiat. Too bad that damned Fiat had been converted to an oplet, so we got the oplet price for it.11 All the same, I was impressed to see your skill. The minute you looked for work you got it. You were the driver and I was the conductor. We scored that oplet. But you"—he gazes at Idulfitri's profile with a threatening and warning expression, "you spoil Djirah too much—" Disgusted and nauseated, Idulfitri returns his companion's gaze. His lips move slightly as if he is about to speak. But no sound emerges. He casts his eyes to the closed ticket office of the theater. "And tomorrow or the next day," However goes on, "even this ticket office will experience our attack—we from the ranks of the hungry." He's startled into silence.

44

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Then he continues in a philosophical tone: "I don't understand—when I'm hungry, it's as if any kind of food that comes to mind is so near I can almost taste it, and it's as if the flavors become six million times richer than they really are." However again falls silent, recalling all the dishes that have ever passed through his gullet, all the food he has tasted from the time he was born up to this moment. Hearing his comrade's pseudo-philosophical pronouncements, Idulfitri can't restrain himself: "Yes—when war raged at every turn—the same war that I experienced and endured—the screams and shouts of humanity were beautiful, holy, pure, filtering out all the animal nature which runs through human beings. And take words which are more beautiful and sweeter yet," he says slowly. "And serabi cakes are soft, sweet, delicious in the memory of a starving person.12 And take words that are far more beautiful and sweeter than all of these. Or take the jasmine that grows from a wallow of water-buffalo shit: how pleasing to the eye, more marvelous than when found in a palace garden." "You're mocking me," However says accusingly. Idulfitri doesn't answer. On the main street traffic is coming to life. The bicycle lane alongside the main road is already filled with the bicycles of employees going to work. Sometimes betjak also pass, their bells ringing wildly, as they carry prostitutes back to their stables from their respective customers.13 Often there are empty betjaks as well, their drivers beaming with high hopes at the prospect of a brilliant day. "There's no use talking of the sublime," Idulfitri begins again. "I think so too; there's really no use to it!" "Not to mention that run-away-horse philosophy of yours." "Sometimes philosophy provides great consolation to a hungry stomach." "Crab! I can't take this hunger anymore. Let's look for a friend—right now," and he has already begun to stride away from the verandah of the Deca Park building. "Agreed?" "Agreed. But, ah!" "Your sighs are blood-curdling." "I'm terrified to hear them myself. Our friends are at work now. You can't expect to find anyone at this god-awful hour. Let's just sit here for about three hours," However finally suggests. But when he sees that Idulfitri isn't willing to listen and keeps on walking, he hurries after him. These two youths, who feel like fish stranded on the shoals after the flood has receded, now turn the corner. And the telephone building looms ominously on their left. For a moment they regard the clock mounted on the front of the building. "Your friend Ida works here, doesn't she?" However says accusingly. "Since she was three months pregnant, her old man hasn't allowed her to work," says Idulfitri, extinguishing However's hopes. Then: "I just remembered Mansur. I hear he's got work. If that's true, in seven hours we can eat." "Mansur works in a trading office. You'll have to wait ten more hours." Idulfitri swears both in his heart and out loud. They keep silent as they walk, and their eyes never stop weighing the wealth of the passersby and of the food being sold all along the street. Arriving in front of the presidential palace, they don't look to the right or left, but keep walking straight ahead. Resentment and suspicion towards the fate of each of his friends now living comfortably pierce Idulfitri's heart. In his head he imagines his friend Lieutenant Hasibuan. Previously this friend had held the rank

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of sergeant-major. After getting out of prison Idulfitri had presented himself at the military base: reported in. He had experienced some difficulties at the time: got asked umpteen kinds of questions. The anger that he carried with him from prison lent fire to his voice as he answered. Then he got the decision: you'll have to wait. And he waited. Two months went by. Finally he met Hasibuan. Got the story—"In the report I read you can't be taken back into the military. Your politics are communist." He had jumped up, shocked to the core. And he realized then that he was a communist without knowing head or tail about the matter. But he had always wanted to be a good person and to lead a respectable life. "I should have been a military policeman by now," he finally sighs. "You're rambling!" However says accusingly. "If only they hadn't been suspicious of me, and had known who I really was, they wouldn't have kicked me out just like that. You know the reason, don't you?" "Yeah, of course I know." "I had a plan. But they had their suspicions." "You were kicked out, and all that was left was the plan." "It's not as if they're not penny-ante, too. I'm penny-ante, but I have a plan." Idulfitri smiles bitterly. "Maybe because you were born on Lebaran day," suggests However, changing the subject.14 "And we've both become bandits now." "If only I'd become a military policeman," Fitri continues his plaint, "I swear I'd have mopped the floor with all the damned bandits in this city." Suddenly his voice explodes. "Including you!" he screams at However. However laughs happily. More and more people begin to pass on either side of them as they give vent to their respective lines of talk. But the pair pay no attention. At one moment Idulfitri regrets the course his life has taken, steered by However towards crime. Yes, to the point where he hadn't hesitated to kill a man by night. He doesn't like it. Always his heart howls that he doesn't like it, that he hates the things he's done. But he can't free himself from the influence of However. Each time he regrets his behavior, which has been sinking lower and lower all this time, a desire always arises within him to blacken his companion's eyes. "But for some reason I can never find the courage to go through with it." And he knows why. And he doesn't want to know why. "I'm happy you didn't become a military policeman." "I know everything in your heart, However." "If you had, maybe you'd have caught me already, and in the end you yourself would have suffered a great loss." "Me? A loss?" "Of course, you wouldn't have got me as a friend. You can't think far ahead. Your thoughts are short-range and you can't control your temper. If it weren't for me and my agility, you'd have been grabbed by the kampung people long ago, or maybe even by the military police themselves, or..." Nausea churns in Idulfitri's chest. Suddenly, However redirects the conversation, and Fitri's nausea somewhat subsides: "Karimun's become head of a local party branch." His nausea now abated, Idulfitri asks: "You mean our friend Karimun who was caught red-handed while lifting a big can of Navy Cut from our military warehouse?"

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However nods. "And who was beaten up by the people of Krandji because he said prayer was a waste of time and that religion was an opiate? He picked that phrase up from one of his friends who was a leader of Pesindo?"15 "So you remember who Karimun is." "I'm not sure. Maybe. So that's the guy?" By now the pair are walking past the Indonesian National Radio building. "Which party?" Idulfitri asks. "Masjumi!"16 They walk on. Walk on without talking. And when they're in front of the Ministry of Defense, Idulfitri suddenly cries out: "Now I've got an inspiration. A real inspiration." However beams. He asks: "Have you seen a new victim?" Idulfitri's expression darkens. And once more he wants to blacken his companion's eyes, always thirsting for new victims. But the urge remains frozen in his chest. "However, you're right. The hungry, who have entered the arena, are beginning to secure victory. The hungry!" "But here the hungry haven't yet united. So each has to search for his own mark," says However, spicing up the tale of inspiration. "And me? I myself can already see a fresh victim." Quickly and skillfully Idulfitri grasps his friend's neck and begins to choke him. Five or six people steal a glance at this scene, and half of these continue to keep an eye on the situation to see what will happen next. Now for the first time Idulfitri almost loses control of himself. He threatens: "Don't ever say that again!" Noticing the people standing around observing his actions, he becomes hesitant, and then releases his grip. However giggles as if something important has happened, and then repeats his friend's words. "Yes. The hungry, who have entered the arena, are beginning to secure victory." But Idulfitri doesn't continue with his pronouncement. And he grumbles again in his head. "Sometimes, after all, morality is taught to humankind. But lessons in morality don't guarantee that there won't be people like However. Every person in his or her life has been given this moral teaching to a greater or lesser degree. What has it all come to now? However is a bandit and I'm no less a bandit than he. Me! Me, whom my mother hoped would become a kommis and my father hoped would become a district chief.17 A bandit! A damned bandit, even though I always aspired to become a good person. These lessons in morality never bring inner happiness, but exactly the opposite. Precisely because of them, our hearts always are always full of regret, and daily needs cause people to pile up reasons for regret. With a hungry stomach and a pile of moral teachings I must wander and wander each day. Perhaps these teachings are only useful once a person gains wealth and fortune, and is able to use it as well as possible—enough to get by on day by day. And for a hungry stomach, even God's promises are of no use. Not worth even a penny." Idulfitri has no idea what topics of conversation have been proposed to him by However during his reverie. Only now does he hear However saying:

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"Arsad wants to become a kommis." Idulfitri is suddenly interested by this remark, because such had been his mother's hope for him. "Has he had any luck?" he asks. "He'll be a typist 'til he croaks." "You're too cruel." "Cruel? I'm just repeating what you once said, don't you remember?" However reminds him. "Yeah. He's lucky at that—" "You threw him down on the tram rail," However reminds him further, "and then you cursed him to high heaven. I was amazed that you could do that to a friend." "He said I was a troublemaker." "At the very least you're a troubler of the peace, like me. Sometimes I think that one of these days you'll throw me down, too." Idulfitri doesn't answer. "Actually, you should have thanked him first." "Me, thank him? He should have thanked me first. I'm an ex-police commissioner, friend! I knew that it was he who caused the execution of three freedom-fighters in the Djakarta underground. I had proof. I knew that the military police were looking for him, and I hid him, because it was he who helped me when I collapsed on a bench in Fromberg Park after I got out of Glodok."18 "Well, when you really think about it, Arsad's not all that bad." "And those people who were executed?" "If they hadn't been executed they'd have ended up homeless people, roaming the streets by the end, like the two of us," says However. Silence. They turn towards Gambir Square.19 In his heart Idulfitri prays that Arsad won't become a kommis, but will remain a typist. He hates him. He hates all his friends who are not resolute and have no character. For him, friends like these constitute the most dangerous enemies because of the shakiness of their convictions. "If he stays a typist, he can't possibly gain power, because power in his hands would bring disaster to many people—to far more than it has already." "How about your inspiration?" However asks. Idulfitri's visage clouds over once again. He opens his mouth, grumbling: "I've tried too often to master a decent job." "I?" objects However. "Why not we? Haven't I done the same?" "However, you never give me the chance to stand alone and try my own strength. You always ride the back of my neck." However doesn't protest. When Idulfitri touches on the subject of himself he doesn't dare protest. This is also the reason he tries to talk a lot about various topics so that his friend won't talk about him. He feels too weak to be left alone in society, especially in the criminal field. And he has no talents or skills whatsoever. Nor is he up to manual labor, given the thinness of his body. "Offices always say," Idulfitri continues, "if you work here you'll get a base salary of one-hundred eighty." Idulfitri laughs. "A hundred eighty!" he shouts with bitter glee. "Twenty rupiah more and it's still just enough to pay the rent. Because if I work, I have to be able to eat regularly, which means paying regularly as well. Living like that it's hard enough to find money for rent and food. But for cigarettes, I have to roam the nights again. It all adds up the same."

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"If you didn't spoil Djirah so much, we'd be quite happily roaming the night as usual." Idulfitri's expression clouds over once more. He grumbles: "And I've had an inspiration: I have to join a political party." However's face forms rigid lines as he holds back his laughter. "I know sociology, I know economics, also current politics, I know a lot about history and legislation. I know a bit about philosophy. I'm even fairly up on literature. It's just speeches I'm not good at. But I can learn." "Anyone good at grumbling," However says, trying to torpedo his friend's dreams, "can't possibly be any good at public speeches." "You never reassure me." "Believe it. Not only are you poor at public speaking, but you'll never be able to master it. You're a grumbler and that's also a fine talent." "You crab!" "It's only that you haven't cultivated your grumble carefully, so it doesn't yet bring in any money." "Some day," Idulfitri continues, "maybe I can sit on the city council. Or a provincial council. And maybe later even in parliament." For a moment However seems frightened. "Don't! Don't!" he says, restraining Idulfitri. "And if I get into parliament, I'll wipe out all the criminals in this whole city. All over Indonesia, even. And you," he looks sharply at However's profile, "won't escape the purge, either. Then I'll build a new fate for the hungry." "I'm a member of the hungry class, too," says However, pleading for attention. "I may become Speaker of Parliament. Or perhaps a minister." "If you became a minister, I could be your assistant." Idulfitri ceases to speak. Fear blazes up in However's eyes. Then at last he says extra-sweetly: "You are the torch in this pitch-dark life of mine." "And if I become a minister, I'll devote my entire life to the well-being of the people and the nation." "Maybe starting today you'd like to relieve yourself of your pistol," However says slowly in a voice full of fear, confusion, and suggestion. "I must become a minister! And when I've succeeded, people will find out who I am, what I can do and what I know." "Give me your pistol," says However, summoning up his courage. The sun's heat begins to warm Gambir Square. The pair sit down on a bench in a shady grove at the center of the open space. As in Fromberg Park, here too many homeless women sprawl about. At night they carefully make themselves up and circulate. And during the day they gather on that shady patch of earth, napping, joking under the trees, or hunting for lice on each others' heads. "And they, too," Idulfitri whispers to himself, "are fish stranded on the shoals after the flood has receded." "What did you say, Fitri?" asks However. "They're just like us." "There's a difference. They're women and we're men." "It's not that. They make it possible to live today by destroying the chance of living later on. Their own chance! We're different, we make it possible to live today by robbing other people of their chance of living later on."

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"I don't understand." "Let's just sleep here/7 Idulfitri says, ignoring his friend. "Maybe we really should sleep." The two of them succeed in getting a bench to themselves. Idulfitri leans his spine against the backrest of the bench. After a moment he glances at However and notices that his friend is repeatedly peeking at his pants pocket. The peeking in itself is enough to make Idulfitri put his right hand into his pocket, and that hand doesn't come out again. A moment later—even though he is hungry—he falls asleep. However resumes his sneaking glances at the pocket. But his expression is no longer excited as before. Fear and disappointment darken his face. He is the precise image of a character without definition or certainty, without place or aim in his own society. He is a symbol of the debility of the spirit of youth, who can only live if they have one or more friends on whose neck they can ride. In his paralysis, he still wants to possess the only object that his friend loves, which all this time has made his life easier. And that object is now in Idulfitri's pocket. And the pocket is locked by Idulfitri's hand. Finally, However can't bear his fear and confusion any longer. He gets up from beside his friend. He paces back and forth, his head bowed. Finally he joins the group of roofless women. Although he is disgusted at the sight of their dingy skin, blotched by scabies, fungus, and all kinds of skin diseases, he forces himself to be consoled by sex. He's a master at forcing and abasing himself. But in less than a quarter of an hour he's already bored and these second-hand women no longer console him. He lays himself down on a vacant concrete bench. And falls asleep after all. Many times bicycles pass through the shady patch of earth, their bells ringing. Sometimes cars rumble by not far away—the cars of those being tested for their drivers' licenses. But the weariness of their souls and bodies renders these two sleeping creatures oblivious to everything. Even hunger has no power to wake them. As time passes the sun straightens up overhead and then heads toward the west. The later, the further to the west. At exactly five o'clock, South Gambir Road is filled with processions of cars returning from offices. Horns roar ceaselessly. And the two friends awaken. At first they rub their eyes. Accustomed to wandering, they understand that it is five in the afternoon. Silently they walk in the direction of South Gambir Road. In the end, it's Idulfitri who begins: "If my father's ideals had been fulfilled, waking up like this there'd be coffee ready and a porcelain-tiled bathroom with a basin of blue water, too." "You're a failed bourgeois!" However says accusingly. "To put it in a nutshell, every person ought to live at the level of the bourgeoisie," thus Idulfitri defends his convictions. "Only then will people stop speaking of the wickedness of the bourgeoisie." "You should just go home to your parents' house. That'd be better. I think I'll do the same. Where are your parents?" "I don't think you really need to know." "Why? They're your own parents, aren't they?" "The child they hoped would become a person they could be proud of is this damned me. They don't need me. I'm ashamed to go back to my neighborhood. I'd be ashamed at their very first question." "What's their first question?"

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Tales from Djakarta

"It's like you never grew up! Like you never had parents! Of course they'll ask: 'How is your job? What kind of work are you doing now, my son?' And they'll await the answer with beating hearts. And don't you forget, either, that a moment later the answer you give will be broadcast among your parents' friends and neighbors." "What were your parents' dreams for you?" Idulfitri doesn't answer. "My parents," However begins slowly, asking for his friend's attention, "my parents wanted me to become a hadji."2® "Hadjil" "Ya,AUah,a/wd/*!" "In that case then I know what kind of person you are. A hadji has nothing to say in this company. At most, people know he's given money to the Kongsi Semprong Tiga."21 "Anyway, that's what they hoped for." "You should go back to them. But I'm going to hold out here, until at least 10 percent of their ideals are fulfilled." "What's the use of all that if you've already become a bandit?" However objects. Idulfitri doesn't go on. Finally it's However who resumes their talk. "Maybe Mansur is home by now." "Shall we go to his house?" Arriving at South Gambir Road, they spot a bus speeding west. In one of the windows they see someone waving and shouting. The two friends watch, then return the wave. "Mansur!" Idulfitri exclaims silently, with pain in his heart. The man in the bus window shouts again. Then the vehicle picks up speed. Discouraged, Idulfitri gazes at his friend. He asks: "What did he say just now?" "He said he's moved to Djatibaru. "He didn't mention the alley and the number of his house?" However shakes his head. "Perhaps today we are fated to go hungry. And you, failed hadji, can't you pray to make sure that within two hours at the outside we'll get some food?" Hopeless, Idulfitri flings his body onto a concrete bench at the side of the bicycle lane. However sits down beside him sadly, spitting on the ground. For a moment they remain silent, as if in enmity. Suddenly, Idulfitri's eyes gleam. He looks across to the other side of the road and sees a hawker calling out his second-hand wares. He notes with admiration each movement the hawker makes. A cheerful smile is pasted on his lips. "You've got an inspiration!" However says accusingly. "No. I know now that what I said earlier was an inspiration wasn't one at all. Just some empty daydreams." "But now you've got a true inspiration!" However explores. "No. It's been eleven hours since this morning that we've gone hungry. Not counting last night." "If we count back to yesterday evening, it's already more than twenty hours." "Twenty-five hours," Idulfitri corrects him. "Now we have a good enough excuse." He turns his head and calls the hawker. "If you sell your shirt, and go home bare-chested, you'll catch cold." "How much for a wallet, brother?" Idulfitri asks the hawker. "You've never had a wallet," However protests.

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"Let's see the merchandise first!" the hawker pushes. "However, take out your wallet," Idulfitri orders resolutely. However is stunned. For quite a while he gazes at his friend. But when he sees Idulfitri return his gaze unblinkingly, he bows his head and gropes in his pocket. The wallet possesses great value for However. With it he has accomplished many of his ideals. The wallet also invites the confidence of people he intends to swindle. There are many things that cause him to love this possession of his. Despite all this, in the end he pulls the object out. "I bought it for two hundred fifty a month ago," he says as he hands it over. Out comes a large, deluxe wallet, and fashioned of monitor-lizard skin, and worked with delicate precision. Its border is laced with leather cord, creating a zigzag pattern. Weakly, However removes the papers from within and puts them back in his pocket. Finally he reaches the second leaf of the wallet. "Who's that woman in the picture!" Idulfitri yells suspiciously. Embarrassed, confused and afraid, However lowers his head and says softly, all his confidence gone: "It's just our Djirah." "Our?" Idulfitri exclaims angrily. But when the hawker looks at him his demeanor changes. He continues: "Two hundred fifty we paid at a leather-goods store a month ago. How much, brother?" "Six perak," says the hawker arbitrarily.22 "Infidel!" However hurls his most highly valued curse, the curse that most satisfies his heart. The hawker glares at the insolence of this stranger. And However softens his attitude and his voice. "A hundred fifty," he says. "We lose a hundred, it's okay." "Do you want it or not?" Idulfitri prods the hawker, who is still angry at However's insult. His eyes threaten. "Do you want it or not?" Idulfitri's menacing eyes make the hawker's heart falter. "All right, seven perak."

"Seven perak? Bastard!" Now it is Idulfitri who curses him. The hawker feels afraid. He casts his eyes left and right, looking for help from passersby. But they don't help him. "Eight," he says. "Do you think I'm begging?" Idulfitri persists. "We share the money, right? It's not just you who needs money." "I have to hurry home," says the hawker. "Then let's finish our business," Idulfitri snaps. "Ten perak, that's it." "Not more?" However asks with fear dancing in his eyes. "Not more. Really not more." "Where's the money?" Idulfitri rushes in before However can take his wallet back. And he takes the money at once. The hawker departs joyfully. The wallet is truly fine, a one-of-a-kind example of delicate craftsmanship. Idulfitri strides joyfully in the other direction. And However follows behind him, hunched over, with an obscene face—bereft of his grandeur and the object of his faith. "Let's go to the depot at the end of the street. They have salt there." "Two hundred fifty I paid," However laments.

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The pair keep walking. Idulfitri quickens his steps. However drags his feet wearily behind. "If I hadn't offered him your wallet," Idulfitri grumbles up ahead, "I wouldn't know whether you really are a leech, sucking blood from the back of my neck every second you get the chance. You devour my strength, you always ask for a share of the money, now you're after my girlfriend. If you had any scruples"—when he looks back and discovers that However in his suffering is lagging far behind, he increases his pace. Quickly However springs after his friend, chasing him like a dog afraid of being abandoned by its master. When the two of them are again close, Idulfitri says seriously: "Now I've got a true inspiration." "You don't want me to share Djirah, right?" "I've got it now. However, I'm a bandit and you're a bandit, too. But you're a bandit among bandits. And there's only one Djirah. You can use her now and forever." "But you're not angry, are you?" "No, I'm not angry." "What's your inspiration now?" asks However, free now from the vengeance of his comrade. "Ah, I can already guess who our new victim will be tonight." "Yeah." "The hawker who passes in front of our house every night." Idulfitri nods, and increases his pace again. "And I've got another inspiration," he says. "Yeah," However answers carefully. "You're not mad at me anymore about Djirah. You're a true friend." "And if tonight we succeed, we'll go to her house holding hands as a sign of our sincere friendship." They sit eating sail. And because there is nothing remarkable about two halfstarved people sitting eating sat£, this story comes to an end. But it's true end isn't really to be found in the fall of night and the fall of a new victim, but in their capacity to keep on and on wasting their strength and their capacities .... 1 The names of this story's two protagonists are peculiar. Idulfitri is the name of the feast-day that ends the Muslim fasting month. Namun is a rather formal Indonesian word for "however," "nonetheless." 2 i.e. trivial, by comparison with a criminal case. 3 Senen, a district then famous for prostitution. 4 The word used here is the politically magical merdeka, which includes both political independence from Dutch colonial rule, and, more generally, freedom. 5 Deca [Decca] Park, like Fromberg Park, was another small recreational area on the northern side of today's Merdeka Square. 6 The toad imagines that the coconut-shell above is the big sky. A folk-expression for someone who lives in a narrow mental cocoon. 7 In Islamic theology, Djibril (in Christian terms Gabriel) is the angel who brings each dead person before Allah for judgment. 8 The idea is of an extreme selfishness: grandmothers (who are supposed to be generous) refusing to share their dried meat (a very cheap kind of food). 9 Krontjong—a kind of popular music of Portuguese origin.

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10 This is wahju—in Javanese tradition a divinely inspired revelation. 11 Oplet—forerunner of today's minibus. 12 Serabi—sweet pancakes made with rice flour. 13 Betjak—trishaw, pedaled by human labor. 14 Lebaran—the Indonesian-Malay equivalent of the Arabic Idulfitri described in footnote 1. 15 Pesindo (Pemuda Sosialis Indonesia-Indonesian Socialist Youth), armed youth wing of the revolutionary-era Socialist Party before it split between communists and social democrats. 16 Masjumi—the major political party of modernist Islam during and after the Revolution. 7 I' Kommis (komis)—low administrative rank, just above clerk. 18 Glodok—i.e. the big prison of north Jakarta. 19 Gambir Square—more or less today's Merdeka Square. 20 Hadji—a man who has managed to make the pilgrimage to Mecca. 21 Three Funnels Company—a well-known shipping line of the period. 22 Perak (silver)—a colloquial term for the one-rupiah coin.

IV. MY KAMPUNG (DJAKARTA, JULY 1952)

Friend, you've heard the name of my kampung, haven't you? Kebun Djah£ Kober, five hundred meters in a straight line from the palace. And you also know, don't you? Its gutters are covered in shit of the kampung residents. To be sure, yesterday, the headman issued an order: "No more shitting in the gutters." And what was the first reaction? A neighbor of mine helped his child to shit in someone else's gutter, not his own. And at night, the same was true of the adults. This is not a situation that ought to be admired or condemned. I've lived in this kampung for two years. Much have I seen of the events in this kampung. And it seems to me that I too have become a small part of this kampung. Friend, this kampung is not that large. More or less two hundred meters in width and the same in length. So, an area of more or less 40,000 square meters, crisscrossed by seven alleys. The population within this 40,000-square meter area cannot be less than nine hundred people. Friend, I want to tell you about the condition of my alley—one among the seven. Do you know when I first came to this kampung? One gleaming bright morning. But I did not see signs of morning, so many were the trees that consumed the breathingspace of the residents. However, the residents of my kampung were used to using all of these trees, which were of no guaranteed use, for their stoves. And since I've lived there, I've felt a longing for an abundance of morning sunshine. What's more, houses here are so close together that fresh air is unable to flush out the stale air heavy with shit and gutter gases. This gutter's water, friend, can't flow unless municipal laborers push it along, since every resident throws his trash into it. This has become common practice, since they know no one is likely to prohibit their actions. Friend, what I will tell you about this alley of mine is a situation which once wrenched my heart but then became routine, namely how often Sang Djibril came. That's right friend, I will tell only of the connection between Djibril and this alley of mine. A small guerrilla squad that is cautious is not likely to lose ten people in two years, yet in my peaceful kampung, with its stink and its condition, people die one after another. They die a cheap death, friend. Like this, at the back of my house, soon after I started living in Kebun Djah£ Kober, one person died of a chronic venereal disease. Later, a woman died in the very same house after announcing: "You see, I'm not afraid to die; it's better than living like this." And so she died, calm and happy after sleeping in her platform bed for two months straight, refusing to cook and to eat if food did not come to her. Her adult children did not say a word about the matter. Three months later her daughter gave birth to twins. The younger Little Grandchild lived for three months. Then the first one followed this child to heaven, picked up by Sang Djibril.1 The series of deaths in this single house occurred in a

My Kampung

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period of no more than two years. Think about it, friend, imagine just how active is Sang Djibril in my kampung. In front of my house, friend, lived a woman who loved her son very much because her other children were all daughters. Last among the children were twin girls, one healthy, the other unhealthy. Of course, Dearest Mother loved the healthy one more.2 On one occasion she gave the healthy one some worm-medicine; and because of her love she increased the dosage. Of course the intestines of the small child ruptured when attacked by worm-medicine beyond her strength. And one evening the child died. Of course many tears were shed because of her death, as customarily happens among human beings. Neighbors came to give their condolences, and there was some talking about death. But truly, the realization that it was she who actually killed her own child did not come to the heart of a parent such as Dearest Mother. She killed because she was born to a family that did not understand and likewise she gave birth to a family that did not understand. What's more, friend, this kampung of mine has long been in existence, hundreds of years before I moved here and hundreds of years before I was born. Of course they cannot be told that they kill their own children. They will only say they know their kampung better than I do, and that from olden times no one's dared to open their traps too much. They have a logic of their own that organizes communal life. Next to my house, friend, there was a wedding that ten months later was blessed with a child. And because everyone wishes to live luxuriously by the easiest means and with as much profit as possible, one day this officeboy with a child was caught and put in jail. Of course crimes disappear with a sensible justification. And this officeboy too had his justification: 'To live as a human being should mean having a few extra luxuries." As a result he was not seen in our kampung as a criminal, merely a little unlucky. In the household next door to me, however, there was once a death that shook my kampung. Here is the story as it really happened: He was a printsetter. He had fifteen years of experience, which is the same as saying he had stood the setter's life pretty long. One time he got sick, then got better, and went back to work; sick, better, and back to work; sick, better, and back to work. These cycles became more frequent as time passed and finally lasted for three months straight. Of course Tuan Printboss, who knew that printer's disease inevitably lodges in his workers, said to him gently: "We'll pay for you to see a doctor." So Mr. Setter went off for medical treatment.3 The doctor said: "You need an operation." Of course he jumped up in shock and staggered back to his beloved kampung, for it was this very kampung that had raised him, and this kampung too that had given him much friendship and the blessings of life. But not a few people from our kampung who looked in on him said: "Oh, a stomach operation is not serious. It'll be done in a moment, and you'll be well again in a few more days." Mr. Setter came back to his boss. He wanted the operation. He was back to the hospital and asked to be operated on at once. His pancreas had become pulp, eaten up by lead poison after fifteen years of living with the sickness that caused the deaths of so many setters. All the doctor wanted was to check that his diagnosis fitted the facts. After the operation, all the setter did was scream while blood flowed from his middle. He asked to be returned to his kampung as he did not wish to die without a witness. And so he was taken home. If at the hospital he had to be silent and was forbidden to move, at home he had the opportunity to writhe in pain. Five hours

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after arriving home Sang Djibril came by to pick him up. Fifteen days before, his baby, born only a few hours earlier, had been picked up by Djibril because of tetanus. People said (because they already knew its father's illness was serious): "Wah, this child is a substitute for its baba, long life to its baba."4 But Djibril was indifferent to the voices of the people from my kampung. Mr. Setter was compelled to die even though his baby had already been picked up. The death of Mr. Setter made me think of the apprentice setters at the government printery with their base salary of eighty rupiah a month. Every workday they have to ingest the lead poison that will kill them just a few years on. It's simply no longer surprising that many people choose fields of work where they will get a cheap death. It's truly not surprising any more. Still, not rarely, this situation jolts my thoughts. Djibril also once visited the house in front of my house, a little bit to the left. A Chinese shop! Having lost business to the Indonesian-owned stall in the same alley, the husband became depressed and crouched on his cot coughing every day. Eventually he said to his wife, who was also a trouser-wearing Chinese: "It's okay if I die, so long as it's in my own country." One day, to the surprise of his neighbors, he disappeared; a ship had taken him away to the country of his beloved ancestors. A year later his wife, unable to make a living for herself, was forced by Djibril to cough and cough every day until finally she was taken to the hereafter. Friend, this is not all that I have to tell you about the activities of Djibril in my kampung. Further over, in the same direction, lives an officeboy who wakes up early in the morning and returns from work at five o'clock in the evening. Of course the whole household has to work together to fend off Sang Djibril. But Djibril truly is a messenger with great initiative; he comes to their house really often. When the Mrs. was pregnant or gave birth he did not bother them, but once the child began to crawl, he put worms into the body of the innocent creature. Later, he picked the baby up. Of course its mother and fattier cried a little, when they saw the fruit of their lives picked up, just like that, by Djibril. But while the worms' victim was still alive, it was neglected by both its parents, who pretended not to see their baby always in the grip of chills and fevers and sometimes with oozing eyes. Only when the child was no longer strong enough to move the parts of its body did the mother shed some tears. And of their thirteen children, only three are now left. Every two years a new child is born and will continue to be born, only to be picked up by Djibril. If killing with weapons is punished by the government, killing because of ignorance and poverty is not prohibited in my kampung, even if the killing is of one's own child. It is a routine situation and perhaps quite understandable. Of course I am not going to tell you about the frequent visits of Djibril to other alleys. It is enough for me to tell what happened in mine alone. I haven't told you about the shanty attached to the back of the house across from mine: another officeboy family. You needn't be surprised that I only mention officeboys. Really, friend, you needn't be surprised; it's typical for my kampung. Another such example might be the family living farther over there, a little to the left. When their son was still small he was rocked to sleep with these words: "When you're grown up, become a foreman like baba, okay? A foreman gets a fat salary indeed." What they said was very true; compared to my salary when I was a grade IV/B civil servant, a foreman's was higher by far. Even the driver who lives in front of my house gets a higher salary than my IV/B. And you know that one can learn to drive in seven days. Isn't it so?

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About the officeboy's family I was going to describe just now . . . Friend, you've seen a skinny child, haven't you? So it was with his children too: a row of skinny people, including himself and his wife. Mr. Officeboy was crazy about food.5 He loved to eat so much that he did not think about his wife and children while eating, though they were right there under his eyes. Not so long ago he was to be promoted to the position of clerk. But he rejected the promotion because a clerk has to think a little, while an officeboy does not. Here lies an officeboy's victory—his victory. In short, he didn't want the promotion, really and truly he didn't. So he remained an officeboy, with all the risks of life in officeboy circles. As he was often absent lately, he was sent by the office to a doctor—straight into a darkroom! He was asked to come again the next day. Then he was told to come back the following day too. This time he received a letter of dismissal that he had not expected; TB was the cause. TB did not surprise anyone in my kampung any more; it was something routine. Actually Miss Washmaid put it pretty well: "When my in-law got sick like that I wasn't afraid. I just finished off all his leftovers."6 And fifteen years later, the disease doesn't seem to have migrated to her body. But her husband was let go from his position as officeboy because of the very same sickness, and got a pension of sixty rupiah a month. As sixty was not enough for a whole family to live on, let alone in an expensive city like Djakarta, he went on to another office to become an officeboy once more. In the officeboy family over there aways, it was the child that got TB. Only four months old and already he had it. The parents of the officeboy were in a real state. He himself was a conscientious santri, so he tried very hard to make the child well.7 Only at the age of two was the child able to sit and eat a lot. But the officeboy had meantime lost the desire to chatter the way he used to when he was still a bachelor. Truly there weren't very many people like him in our kampung, as officeboy work was a sideline to pilfering paper, typewriter ribbons, and the like. But this officeboy was one officeboy who was conscientious. This too was no great cause for surprise. Not at all. It had become so routine, and a part of day-to-day life. Certainly no surprise compared to the incident which occurred in the household at the end of the alley. One day a police squad arrived. Coins were found that were going to be smuggled. And when the commander got two thousand rupiah in hush money, the squad just left peaceably. You know how it is, with houses in my kampung so crowded together, what happens in one house can be overheard in the next. And if on one bend of the alley there are paralytics and little children whose job it is to cry for hours every day, on the second bend, there's another TB victim, a civil servant who continues to work anyway. In front of his house, there is another person in whom the accursed but usual disease of our kampung has lodged itself. And in the alley over there aways lives the family of an Arab who also jolted us with a sickness that suddenly made him a crazy man, jumping up and down and hurting people who fell into his hands. And later when Sang Djibril comes again to pick one of us up, children will jostle each other to enter the prayerhouse and beat the big drum, because religious teachers have promised them merit in the afterlife for this good deed. Such, then, is the condition of my kantpung with its busy Djibril. You too, friend, can come to my kampung some time. My kampung can also become a soul-enriching tourist kampung. Finding it is not hard at all, because everyone in Djakarta knows where the national palace is located. Five hundred meters in a straight line toward

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the southwest, there my kampung stands in all its glory, defying the doctors and the technical professionals. But none of this surprises the residents of my kampung itself. If it's surprising at all, it's only so for tourists—among whom you are also included—because the kampung's located so near the palace where everyone's health and every little detail is guaranteed. But my kampung remains tranquil and has not been penetrated by agitators. Only, when yet another person is picked up by hardworking Sang Djibril, and the big drum sounds, people will just say coolly: "Who died?" Someone else will answer: "Old So-and-So." And then the conversation will close in mutual understanding. 1 The word in the original, djemput, means to meet someone in order to take her home or to another destination. Used ironically here for the Djibril (the Archangel Gabriel), the messenger of death. 2 Throughout this story the honorific sang is used ironically. Here sang ibu (honorable mother) is translated as Dearest Mother.

3

i.e. sang zetter.

4

Baba (or bab£)—colloquial word for "father" in the Djakarta dialect.

5

i.e. sang opas. ^ i.e. sang babu tjutji. 7

Santri—pious Muslim male.

V. MAMAN AND His WORLD (AMSTERDAM, MAY 1953)

On Mak Rokaj^'s chicken-coop there's now a padlock.1 Since the day it was installed, he has had no more chance to grope for the eggs of Old Speckle, Mak Rokaj£'s hen. His source of income has disappeared with the lock's appearance. He cannot buy cakes any more and so cannot comfort his little sister when she cries. Since early this morning he's felt frustrated. Moreover, his sister hasn't been willing even to look at him. Indeed the little one's eyes make him furious: open so slightly as she breathes in short gasps. Now he has run out of stories to tell her. His head is full of the eggs of Old Speckle, Mak Rokaj^'s hen. He can't buy krupukl2 There's no more chance to find a way to put a snack in the little one's mouth. He looks closely at his little sister's barely open eyes and thinks to himself: she must be sulking. The thought makes him rack his brains. He waves a hand over the little one's face, but the child pays him no mind. Instead she writhes for a bit and after that does not move again, leaving her mouth slightly agape. Maman keeps on racking his brains. Finally he places the finger, which he often uses to caress the edges of his boils, into the baby's hand, but the little one is no longer willing to grasp it as she usually does. And she doesn't want to giggle happily any more. Indeed the baby won't ever be willing, she'll never be able to want anything any more. Little Maman doesn't know that his baby sister has rachitis and her breathing muscles have become paralyzed. Never again will she look at him, nor laugh for him, nor listen to his stories. Nor will she ever again clutch that rotten-smelling finger of his. But Maman still tries to cheer the little one up. From outside the house come the voices of children making a din and jeering at him as Mr. Stuck-at-Home and Mr. Vegetable. Hastily Maman closes the door and returns to the side of the still silent baby. Now he forces himself to climb up to the sling bed and tickle those little ribs. But the little sister doesn't move, doesn't laugh and doesn't cry. He squeezes her tiny nose and only then does he realize that she is not breathing any more. Suddenly he remembers about Tjing Hasan's goat bleating all night long.3 Tjing Hasan had stuck a hollow papaya stalk into the goat's butt to help it fart. From time to time Tjing Hasan tried to pour fresh young coconut water into its mouth. But the goat still refused to fart and bleated on and on. At seven in the morning—and this he'd seen himself—the goat sank onto its front knees, collapsed to the ground, then fell silent, and finally stopped breathing altogether. People had said: the goat's dead. Dead from eating kara leaves.4 Maman starts to scream as he realizes that death is at his side. He runs to the bed of his Pa, who's sound asleep.5 He shakes his Pa's shoulder. But Pa gets angry. He doesn't like to be disturbed while sleeping in the morning. Working as a night watchman always leaves him overcome with drowsiness until noon.

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Sobbing, Maman leaves him. Finally he goes back to his sister's bed. His tears flow. He hugs his little sister's stomach. He refuses to let his little sister be delivered to the graveyard, to be separated from him. Even now he's already feeling the loneliness. At last he falls asleep, taking his troubles with him into his dreams. When Ma gets home, he's startled and wakes up. He rushes over to her and tells her that his little sister's dead. She is annoyed to hear the news because she's exhausted. She leaves the bread and the leftover rice she's brought in a basket on the table and goes over to waken Pa. Pa wakes, and with half-closed eyes heads off to where the food is laid out. Now Maman runs up to his Pa and tells him what has happened. Pa glares at him but finally gives in. He goes to see the child. He rubs the chest of the little creature. Suddenly he screams. Ma comes to his side and starts to rub the child's chest too. Then she too begins to wail. Ma and Pa aren't shrieking because their child is dead but simply because they are shocked to come face to face with death. Without hesitation, Maman joins in the screams. He screams because he is startled to see his parents screaming so desperately. He howls because his parents' screams confirm his guess that his little sister is dead, that she will be buried in the graveyard, and that he has lost the one playmate who never gave him trouble. And now Maman has a real reason to cry. He feels happy in his tears. How many times he's cried without knowing why. And his crying never drew the slightest attention from anyone. But now he has a reason. His parents are crying too. So he in turn is allowed to cry. Such are Maman's first childhood memories: Ma crying, Pa crying and his little sister dead—memories that come back in various situations, and at different times and places.

Surviving beatings, and sometimes curses, too, from his parents, Maman finally managed to reach the age of fourteen. He grew up to be a lanky youth, a loner often lost in his own thoughts, awkward in every job he has. But he had to work, to begin supplementing his parents' income. And so one day Maman went off to the municipal office to ask for a laborer's permit—matching his abilities with what they thought he was capable of. From that day on, very early each morning, he left home for work, dragging his feet and carrying his lunch in a little bag; during a break he'd eat it by the roadside under the shade of a tree or on the verandah of someone's home. And from that day on, at five every evening, people would see him walking home dragging his feet still more slowly. Naturally, many of the neighbors ridiculed him. They did not mean to hurt him at all; on the contrary they merely wanted to see him smile at them just once. At such times, Maman felt fretful and full of longing for something far away—longing for the time when his world was still filled only with himself, his little sister and Mak Rokaj£'s speckled hens, and with Pa and Ma only sometimes interfering. But now he had to work. Now he had to enter the big world. Now everyone wanted to intrude into his thoughts, his feelings, his memories of his baby sister. All that he owned that is private and hidden had to be sacrificed so he could make a living. And every day of his life felt extraordinarily long, as if there was no end in sight.

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After five years of working, he was still a laborer—sweeping the gutters along the alleyways. Only sometimes did he receive a gift from someone whose house bordered gutters which hadn't been swept for two weeks and had become a nest for mosquitoes. And he kept every gift that he received. The day came when he too wanted to have a wife—someone who would never obstruct nor question his heart's desires, just like his little sister so long ago. But that was precisely what he felt he could never get. All the young girls laughed at him, belittling his physical appearance and his occupation.

One day while Maman was sweeping out a kampung gutter, he met a maid. He was taken with her healthy body and the freshness of her rosy face. After working in that kampung for two weeks, he realized that she too lived a life of ridicule, laughed at and humiliated; the only difference was that she couldn't care less. Then his workmates started to mock, ridicule, and humiliate her as well. Gradually, Maman learned that she was mute. This discovery made him realize that this woman had the same fate as he, and so she'd be just the right person to become his wife. Now Maman would smile when she passed by, and she would return his smile. Perhaps she felt too that, in her life, he was the one person who did not mock, ridicule, or humiliate her. Maman's smiles were reciprocated not only with smiles but also with cakes and cigarettes. And on a cloudy and overcast day, on a Sunday to be precise, Maman informed his parents that he intended to get married. "How much money do you have?" Ma attacked him in a mocking tone. Naturally Maman didn't reply. When Pa returned from nightwatchman's duty, Ma told him about Maman's intentions. And immediately Pa grimaced bitterly, rubbing his chest while intoning as if in prayer: "Who's going to support your woman? Me?" Of course Maman did not reply. The next day Maman went to work as usual. The day after that, Pa got word from Maman's workmates that his son wanted to marry a mute. And Pa felt he could not bear the torture in his heart. When he got home, he passed this crucial news on to his wife. Pa said bitterly: "I'm already stuck with supporting her and now I hear my future daughter-inlaw is a mute." But this time Ma kept quiet. Her tears flowed silently. She sobbed. Only now did she understand how lonely her child's life had been. Between her sobs could be heard: "Oh, my child! A single child, with no inheritance or education. No brains or strength. Now you're to be married, and what do you get, but a mute. What bad luck you've always had!" After that she didn't criticize the mute or her son any more. But Pa was unrelenting. After all, he had his reasons: his already wretched pay would be futher diminished with a mute daughter-in-law. So he refused to go along with Maman's wishes. And one night while Pa was away at work, Ma came up to Maman, as he prepared to go and meet his sweetheart: "Maman, it's not that I forbid you. It's just that I want to know if you really can't find someone who'd be a normal wife."

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In his heart he heard the voice of his conscience: Maybe, Ma. But like everyone else, this other someone would only mock, ridicule, and humiliate me. But he kept silent. When his Ma continued to insist, he replied gently: "Let it be, Ma. A mute is still a human being, isn't she?" After that he dressed up in his best clothes and left to call on his mute. There he was met by her employer, who turned out to be a friendly man. While she finished her work, her employer invited Maman to chat for a while under a cherry tree in front of the house. He was the one who had brought her from upcountry. Because she was mute, he was confident she wouldn't flirt around like other maids. It turned out he was right, but he had no right to forbid her to get married. It was obvious her employer felt attached to her, because she was a hard worker, did not gossip as she worked, and she wasn't distracted by other people. Quite unexpectedly, her employer offered Maman a job as his assistant at the office. Maman would be paid three times what he was now being paid, but on the condition that he live in the room at the farthest corner of his new employer's house. Naturally Maman accepted this attractive offer. A few months later, Maman married the mute. His new job was to ensure that his employer's office was always clean and tidy. Sometimes he had to accompany his employer in the truck to deliver and pick up merchandise from the harbor. When his employer also required him to learn to read and write, Maman diligently studied the lessons he was given. One day, without any warning, his employer said to him: "These days business is very slow. Many companies are folding. To tell the truth, my own business itself is in rocky shape. I hope you understand my difficulties." But Maman did not understand. Finally, his employer explained to him that he did not have the heart to fire him. But what could he do except to fire him, unless Maman was willing to settle for only a third of his current salary. "Sir," replied Maman. "When you were happy, I was happy along with you. If you are now facing hard times, I should stay on with you—but only if you agree." And that night Maman was assaulted by a deep sadness. He had lost two-thirds of his salary, which made it impossible to support his Ma who was now old and unable to support herself as a washerwoman. After everyone had fallen asleep, he whispered into his wife's ear, who looked so peaceful in her sleep: "My mute! My mute! Help me." But she continued to sleep. In fact, she was smiling! All that night he racked his brains, but no good ideas came to him. He felt as if his brain had been enveloped in a darkness. Dense darkness. Just before dawn, the darkness was suddenly pierced by a brilliant, clear light. And in that clear light there emerged the face of his little sister who was struggling to free her hands and legs. He pinched her tiny nose. This made the little one flail her hands and feet all the more. All of sudden the light and his sister disappeared, and Maman woke up stuttering. From his eyes trickled two teardrops. Tears for his little sister. The mute was no longer by his side—she had already begun her work in the kitchen.

After finishing work at the office, Maman didn't go home directly. Instead he went to his parents' house. Ma had fallen ill. The neighbors told him how glad they

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were that he had come. Ma too smiled happily to see her son. And the neighbors also told him that there was no one to care for his sick Ma. "All right, Ma," said Maman. "I'll ask my employer if I can move back here." After buying his Ma some food and some quinine, he went off to his little sister's grave. But he could not find it any more. When he asked the caretaker, he was told that the grave had been dug up five years ago and another body lowered into its place. The flowers he'd bought by the roadside he scattered on the former site of his little sister's grave. When he arrived home, it was already nine o'clock at night. Still his wife did not greet him with a dour look. She knew that when Maman came home late, there would have been an important job that needed finishing. And when his employer asked him where he had been after work he explained everything to him: his Ma's illness and the visit to his little sister's grave. His employer sensed immediately the difficulties faced by this young man. But he himself needed help just now when his business was doing so poorly. The only help that he could offer Maman was to give him permission to move with his wife to his Ma's house, since she was now old and ailing. With that, and after thanking his employer profusely for all that he had done for him and his wife, Maman moved back to his Ma's home. Even though she was in a new place, the mute never complained. She approached her work and duties with the same unfurrowed face. Indeed the mute's face was the one thing that consoled him in his disappointment and sadness. The first night at his Ma's place, he was again unable to close his eyes. His thoughts flew off in all directions. He felt he should use his free time after work to find extra income, but no clear idea came to show him a way. And with his salary now a third of what it used to be, it would not be possible to live with his wife as before. Earlier, his wife had all her meals free, and so did he—at least once a day. But not any more. And his Ma was sick too. And Pa never got a real raise. Whenever he did get one, it was merely enough to cover the price of three packs of regular cigarettes.6 Maman's imagination continued to fly far and wide. When dawn had almost arrived, the bright ray of light emerged again in the darkness of his consciousness. And in that bright light he could see his little sister laughing for him. Immediately all the sadness and oppressiveness he had been suffering disappeared. He returned to the world of his childhood. He was playing once again with his little sister. Once again he was pinching her nose and she was struggling to get free. Then he tickled her little ribs. And his little sister giggled happily. Meanwhile, the sun had risen. Maman woke hurriedly, still carrying with him some of this feeling in his heart. Throughout the day, his thoughts were only of his little sister. And right after work, he started making a doll which, when its nose was pinched, would flail its hands and legs. Day after day he worked on the doll, but only in the hours after work. After half a month, the doll had become as he had imagined it. He called in all the small children in his alley. He bought all kinds of snacks as alms in honor of the little sister of his own making. A madman, said the neighbors. As it is, he doesn't have enough for food, and here he is giving alms for a doll. But children are different. They felt very happy with the alms-cakes. And one after another the children were invited to pinch the doll's nose. When the hands and legs moved and flailed about, the children screamed in delight. In the end, even the

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adults gathered to watch. It was that day that Maman was able to give form to the joy his little sister had given him in his dream. With this discovery, Maman became a different man, a man who was happy. He had found new strength. He spent his time after work making other dolls and within the month had finished twenty-five. He got his materials from leftover pieces of wood at his workplace. One evening, after he had more than fifty dolls, he carted them off to sell. He shouted gleefully, hawking his wares with sheer happiness. All along the way the children gathered to admire the new-style toys. And every time he handed a doll to a buyer, Maman thanked his little sister. At ten at night, when he returned home, all the toys had been sold. For the first time in his life, he had made a lot of money. And that very night he was compelled to look for a carver who would be willing to help him in his enterprise. A month later, the one carver had become four. Three months later he had fourteen. His small house now became a factory. Then, one day, Maman became the richest man in his kampung. No one mocked, ridiculed, or humiliated him any more. His toys now filled the shelves of big department stores on a commission basis. In the span of five years, Maman owned a big factory and employed three hundred people. One day he and his wife came to visit their former employer and found him in a miserable state. He saw that the expensive furniture was now completely gone. Even the garage was empty. With a sad face, his former employer greeted him "It's all over, Maman," said his former employer. "All our efforts have failed." His eyes were hollow as he looked at his guests. "But I am happy to see that you're healthy and perhaps even doing well." Maman thanked his former employer for all the help he had once given both to him and to his wife, so that now they could prosper. Maman also told his former employer that he now had a big factory and three hundred employees. He continued: "If you'd like, sir, why don't you work with us? And because all I started with were the bits of wood and wire that you provided, it's only right you should own a share of the business." And from that day on Maman's former employer became a shareholder and director. When the government banned imports of expensive toys, Maman's factory became, as if by magic, several times larger. And he used this success to give to those who were trapped by their failure to make a living. The children who had once mocked and humiliated him, they too drew happiness from his success. The bitterness of his life he had endured alone, but his happiness he shared with anyone in need of it. * Mak (or emak)—in the Djakarta dialect the colloquial word for mother or any older woman. Krupuk—flour-chips flavored with shrimp or fish. 3 Tjing—short for entjing, literally "uncle" in the Djakarta dialect, but used generally for an older man. ^ kara leaves—poisonous leaves of a species of peanut vine. 5 Throughout this story, Maman's parents are referred to by the Djakarta colloquialisms babt and emak (translated therefore as Pa and Ma). 6 These are Western-style cigarettes, as opposed to the more widely used indigenous kretek, which are flavored with cinnamon. 2

VI. GAMBIR (AMSTERDAM, AUGUST 1953)

Djakarta 1952. Daybreak. Mist floated and gently fell to earth. The whistle of the first locomotive shrieked like a demon of legend demanding a sacrifice. Some of the people groaned for an instant, sat up, rubbed their eyes still firmly in the embrace of darkness, coughed, and left their sleeping places. One or two among them walked unsteadily, leaving the boxcars behind, moving off into still darker places. Having spat out the phlegm in their throats, two men reached the station fence, slipped through the barbed wire, and emerged on the bicycle-path. The whistles of the connector engines began to sound more frequently, screeching without regard for anything around them. And one by one the office lights went on. Also the lamps along the tracks. More and more lanterns lit up on the station platform as time passed: vendors of food and cigarettes and coffee lying in wait for the morning profit from the workers, coolies, and passengers preparing to depart by the Djakarta-Surabaja and DjakartaJogja express trains. "I didn't see where you slept last night," rasped a low, harsh voice still filled with phlegm.1 "Under a boxcar full of lime." "Damn you! I was looking all over for you!" "Afraid, huh?" "Yeah, I was scared all night. Dreamed over and over of being strangled by a demon." "Your own fault. Yesterday you lost, but you just kept on playing. Your shirt's gone, now you've caught a chill." And still picking at the crusts at the corners of their eyes, they headed for the station platform. The horns and whistles of the connector engines shrilled as they greeted one another. And the more the locomotives growled the more people left their beds. Travelers sleeping on the station verandah also began to waken one by one. And when the lamps on the verandah were lit, they all got up and moved back into the shadows. Sometimes they paused for a moment to urinate beside the open sewers or behind trees or in the corners of the station. An instant later the sharp odor of several liters of morning piss, sprayed in all directions, spread out into an area tens of meters square. The radiance of the lamps and lanterns was augmented by the flickering glow of scores of kretek and kaung cigarettes. An unobtrusive play of light in the cold dampness of that daybreak. "San, Hasan, did you get a good sleep last night?" "I'm tired, Tong. So much to carry yesterday." "Ah, you don't play the dice, and you don't steal. Money keeps coming in. Wah, another year and you'll be rich for sure."

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"Just to be rich? Is it really worth it to sell your life like this? I ran like hell from Pal Merah.2 Those thugs were real devils.3 Took my things, took my woman, they even wanted to take my life. Devils! Now I'm sleeping under the boxcars. Nice and warm if you can get inside. But if there's a sweep—you're finished. What a way to get rich!" "You're lost in the past, San!" "Breakfast?" "Yeah, let's have some breakfast" The pair of them headed for their usual cake-vendor's stall. They sat for a moment scratching the crust from their eyes, coughing, spewing out the phlegm that had risen in their throats again, and from time to time scratching themselves from their asses up to their necks. "Sit close to the fire. It's warm," offered the cake-vendor. "Had a smoke yet?" "Coffee first." And the two of them took a couple of gulps and then put down their cups. "Looks like a good day, doesn't it? It's still early and the customers are already coming." And the three of them began to talk, warmly, and from heart to heart. "San, I heard Intjup was arrested." "Intjup? Who cares? He's only the tail-end, not the head." "No matter how well someone's doing, if they're crooked they'll end up in the ditch," the cake-vendor continued. "But you seem to like living like this, huh, Tong!" "Whatever! You do good, and your luck doesn't improve. You do like I'm doing now, if s still the same. What other choice is there?" Otong replied. "You've got a wife, don't you?" "So what if you have a wife. If the money isn't coming in, people just insult you. Better like this, there's no one disrespecting you." "But you're making money every day, right?" "Just enough for myself." "You're so greedy. Don't you make more as a coolie than in my kind of trade? But I don't get it. You're happier freezing. I may get less, but at least I don't freeze or fight with people over luggage every day." "Well, everyone's got so cheap these days. In the old days, when I was still a kid, people would just give me money if I asked for it. Nowadays? Ask for money, and what you get is spit. You only get some if you fight for it." Oil the bicycle-path, there began to be more and more lamps: bicycles and betjak. Bells rang and answered each other from moment to moment. A pick-up glided down the main road and entered the station yard. "Hurry, finish the cake. There, there's a load." And Hasan and Otong took a bite, stood up, swallowed quickly and then, racing with the other coolies, went to meet the pick-up that had just arrived full of travelers and luggage. "Coolie, sir? Coolie?" Otong offered his services with relentless resolve. "Bring all of these. Eight suitcases! Don't lose anything. Watch out!" "Very good, sir, I'll take care of it, guaranteed." And when the passengers had left for the platform Otong snarled at the other coolies: "Leave these alone. Look for something else. Hasan, there's a lot of stuff here. Come on!"

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Following after the passengers, the pair of them shouldered the suitcases up to the platform. And that morning they were both feeling short of breath. The suitcases were very heavy. Sweat beaded up on their foreheads and brows. So early in the morning! Only on arriving at the well-lit platform did their faces become clearly visible. Otong had a short stout body and his nose was always filled with thick gobs of snot on the verge of dripping to the ground. Hasan was taller and more heavily built, and one side of his face was lined with the scar of a sword-wound. The pair hunched over under the crushing weight of the baggage. And as they climbed aboard the train the conductor called out politely, "Not here, boss. These are numbers forty through fifty/7 With curses in their hearts they continued their hunched-over march for several meters more. Then they arranged the suitcases below and beside the seats. And when their hands were stretched out to receive payment, the following exclamation could be heard: "Only one ringgit sir? For so many bags?" "Eight perak for the lot," added Hasan. The eye at the tip of the sword scar joined in protest. "Eight perak/' he said again. "No more, no less." Now noticing the scar, the man paid up. As the two of them stepped down to the platform they heard a faint voice behind them. "These days coolies are getting above themselves." "It's the conductor who's gotten above himself," whispered Otong to Hasan. "Yeah, all he does is show people their seats, and he gets tips without fail." "Yeah, just shows people their seats..." Wiping away the sweat they returned to the cake-vendor's bench. "Success?" "Success. Four perak each." "You see! I haven't made any profit yet this morning. You already have four perak each. At most I make ten perak a day, and that's with a wife and kids to take care of. You! Only a few minutes and there's money in your pockets. Where does all that money go?" "For me the answer's easy, man. Gambling! Fooling around. What else is there?" "That's you. Make four perak and you're ready to quit working for the day." "Why not? Got money, my stomach's full. Why keep working? I got no kids, don't want a wife. Hasan here is the one I don't understand. What's his money for?" "Watch out! The police are coming," warned the cake-vendor. "Bastards! Can't make any more money now. That rifle gives me the creeps." They gulped down their remaining coffee and chewed the last of their cakes. Hasan's eyes followed the policeman who appeared on the platform, his body erect and powerful, and with a rifle too. He wanted a rifle and he meant to buy one when the chance arose. He remembered Intjup. One morning he had come to him and said, "San, your wife is oh-so-sweet." His blood boiled to hear such insolence. But he didn't have the courage to chase the man away. Intjup was feared by the whole kampung. People said he was a spy for Djuned. He had a Colt with fifty bullets. "But what a shame, San, about that oh-so-sweet wife of yours. Yeah, really a shame. The girl's not right for you." He'd controlled his anger and tried to figure out what Intjup was up to. "If that's so, then who is she right for?" And Intjup kept on with his insinuations, emphasizing them with gestures. "Who else but the djago of our

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kampung?"4 He feigned stupidity and asked, "Who's that?" And Intjup had smoothly replied, "You don't know? Well, you'll see for yourself very soon." And that night his house was surrounded. His modest worldly possessions were destroyed. His wife—Bib£—was dragged off into the night. He'd managed to break through the encirclement of his attackers, but not before his cheek had felt the kiss of a sword. Ever since, little by little, his longing for vengeance had grown. And now he gazed at the policeman's rifle. He wanted the rifle, yes, that English rifle. If they could bring ruin on him why couldn't he repay them in kind? "Daydreaming again, San?" chided the cake-vendor. "See over there—the two betjak. And look, behind them there's a mobilet!"5 One gulp and the coffee was down. Hasan jumped up and offered his services. Polite now as he stole glances at the police. "A ringgit to carry this mobilet, sir! All the way to the top. Guaranteed! But you have to get rid of the gasoline first." Once again he glanced at the policeman beside him. No, one ringgit was not enough to attract the eye of a policeman. "Half a perak, if you want it." Hasan strolled slowly towards the cake-vendor while waiting for a better offer. "How about three talen ? " Hasan kept walking.6 "Onepemfc!" "Very well, one perakl" Hasan turned back but another coolie, larger and stronger, had already confronted the man. "Yes, sir, one ringgit," he said. "Let me bring it up." Hasan stood in place. "That Sidik is a real creep," he thought. "Behind the station he keeps a Chinese concubine—a Benteng Chinese—and his woman wants to open a little business."7 "Sidik—the bastard—he comes looking for me at night. Once he stole a hundred from me." He felt for the knife below his waist, hidden in the folds of his pants. "Try it again and you'll feel the hand of Hasan. You'll never go home to see your concubine again." His gaze tracked Sidik as he carried the locked mobilet. Unwise to make off with other people's livelihood. "Patience, San, patience," soothed the cake-vendor. "Sit down. Take it easy. Have another drink. You think Djakarta is the size of your kampung, Pal Merah? No way, San." Otong laughed, then turned his body towards the flame. "More coffee," he said. "Let me have one of your fresh cakes, but make it a dry one." The blackness of the sky had diminished. And the station yard gradually came alive—a blend of legal residents and those who were not registered with the census bureau. But whether they were legally recognized or not they all felt something in common: the struggle to fulfill their respective needs, to secure whatever they lacked. Here and there the hoarse voices of boys hawking newspapers and magazines could be heard. Also sundries and toasted bread. The bustling crowd of passengers for the Djakarta-Jogja train now followed. "There, another load's coming," the cake-vendor pointed.

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Hasan jumped up. Otong remained sitting on his bench. This time Hasan got the job. A large chest made of discarded wood from an automobile packing-crate. Behind it an old Chinese man trailed along. "Sometimes Hasan makes as much as forty a day/7 Otong continued. His eyes followed Hasan who was hunched over under his burden like a turtle that had strayed too far from the water. "But I can't figure out where he keeps his money. He doesn't fool around, doesn't gamble. Doesn't do anything except eat and sleep. He eats well enough on four perak a day." "How sad! Look at him. Ah, he tortures his body because he wants to get rich." When customers came to buy cakes the vendor paused and with a flourish he wrapped up the cakes they selected. And once the customers were gone he asked, "Maybe he has a girlfriend?" "Girlfriend? He's a bantji* A real bantji. Never leaves the station. A bit later in the morning he'll disappear, hiding out in the boxcars over there." Otong pointed towards the station. "He only reappears when the trains from Semarang and Surabaja arrive." "Can he really make forty a day?" "Ah, you don't believe it? He's so strong and he works so fast." "Maybe he snatches people's things?" "No way. He's too pious." "At night?" "He only sleeps after everyone else has gone to bed. Looks for a hideout. Could be he's afraid of having his money stolen." "I never see him laugh. What's his problem?" "Maybe he's thinking about his wife who disappeared." "Could be he wants to save up money to look for his wife. What a shame!" "What a shame? You think there's only one woman in the world?" "Tong! You really don't have any feelings. But for most people, long, there is only one woman. Yeah, not like you. Ah, you wouldn't understand what I mean." Otong laughed contentedly. "How can you just laugh when someone is telling you the truth?" "So, how many women do you have anyway?" "Only one of course. What are you getting at? And Hasan too has only one wife, doesn't want more, and doesn't want to replace her with someone else. He really does act like a good Muslim. Does he pray?" "Sometimes. Gets water for prayers from the faucet in the engine-house. If a watchman yells at him, he doesn't take it and he doesn't pray. It's only at night that he recites from the Koran." "So he's good at reciting from the Koran?" "Who knows. I never learned myself, so how should I know whether he's any good." "Does he have kids?" "They say he was newly married. Only one month." "Then he's still young." Panting breath interrupted their conversation. "Hey, Mas Sidik," Otong greeted the hew customer.9 "Take a seat right here. The coffee's delicious this morning. Warms the heart." "Damned bad luck. Haven't made a cent this morning," Sidik began.

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"Hey, I haven't asked to be paid yet," exclaimed the cake-vendor. "Later when you have it, Mas Sidik. I'm sure you won't forget, right?" Sidik cleared his throat. "The cake, ah." And before anyone could say another word he took a piece and began eating it. "A little while ago, I saw Hasan. Where is he now? He disappears in a real hurry, doesn't he?" Otong said nothing. Nor did the cake-vendor. "When Hasan pays me, then I'll settle my tab. Really!" Suddenly Sidik stopped eating. And with his mouth still stuffed with cake, he spoke slowly. "Look over there. If you don't know, he's the one known as Al Kabir."10 Sidik nudged Otong in the ribs. The two of them, and the cake-vendor as well, gazed at a young man walking carefully, as if he were crossing a railway bridge. Sidik chuckled. The cakevendor was perplexed. Otong stared steadily at the young man. "What's the story?" asked the cake-vendor. "That's him, Al Kabir. His name should be Al Kebiri since he's a master at castrating passengers' pockets."11 Sidik laughed with pride in showing off what he knew. "I'd like to wring his neck and smash his head on the river rocks." Otong remained silent, the cake-vendor too. "If I had a gang like him I'd do the same. Get on at Gambir—now look at that! The conductor doesn't dare check his ticket, just pretends not to see him. They're all afraid of that skinny kid—and a few minutes later he'll get off at Djatinegara or at worst at Tjikampek. Pockets full of money by then. If it's only hundreds then it's a bad day. No one has the courage to challenge him. Vfahl It only takes a thousand these days to make the police look the other way. They look good on the outside but when a victim needs assistance, chicken. When it comes down to it, one rifle is still afraid of fifteen hands. Rifles?" Sidik laughed again. "In a carriage full of people you can't fire a rifle. I guarantee you they'll keep silent. Were you in the revolutionary struggle too, Tong?" "Aw, me, I'm a coward, Sidik." "Yeah, all you know is women. You ought to know who I am." Sidik pointed to himself. "Here's a guy who was once a commander. If it wasn't for me the Revolution wouldn't have been so easy. Whatever needed doing, I took care of it." Otong drank in silence. It seemed as if he wanted to get up. His eyes studied Sidik carefully. And when Sidik looked at him he took his seat again. Someone new had just sat down beside Sidik. He opened an aluminum tin and a bottle also made of aluminum. "Fill this up please, mas. Just two of those cakes will be enough. Four cups of coffee, one to drink here." "Where do you work, bung?" Sidik inquired.12 "Pasar Dean, I'm waiting here for the tram."13 "Good wages?" "Ah, only enough to eat with." The cake-vendor inspected the scrawny new customer in his blue work-shirt. But he didn't say anything. Otong kept quiet too. "Is it because you don't have a wife, bung, that you're buying coffee so early in the morning?" "She's pregnant and has the cravings." "Ah, women. One shouldn't give them their way." Sidik announced loudly.

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The skinny man looked at Sidik. He didn't say a thing, but he was clearly not pleased with Sidik's pronouncement. "long, let me know if you see Hasan. It's damned hard to find him." "In fact, mas Sidik, I was just leaving, heading downtown." "Didn't you hear me? I said, tell me if you see Hasan. The bastard disappears every time you look for him." He rose from his seat. He stood up glancing around him. "He hasn't been paying his debts," he continued. Then in a rattier soft rhythm: "Mas, I'll pay you the money later." Then he left. From a distance he yelled, "Don't you forget, Tong." "Poor Hasan," said the cake-vendor. Otong kept silent, but his eyes scanned to the left and to the right. After paying, the Pasar Ikan worker went off. He stood for a long time at the tram-stop in front of Gambir station across from the church. "Why is he after Hasan?" "He thinks that Hasan has stashed away two thousand rupiah." "What? A coolie can save two thousand?" "Hey, what do I know? It was Sidik himself who told me. He wants that money." "If that's the way it is then Sidik really is a bastard. The two of you aren't brave enough to gang up on him together, huh?" Otong grinned in shame. "You're only brave with women, Tong. It's true what Sidik said earlier, you only know women." Suddenly the cake-vendor fell silent. His eyes were fixed on a particular place. Finally he stammered, "There he is, he's coming back." "Sidik?" "Hasan!" Otong got up and walked quickly towards the approaching Hasan. They could be seen meeting, speaking, and then vanishing in opposite directions.

The first rays of the sun cast a golden radiance behind the church across from the station. The Djakarta-Surabaja and Djakarta-Jogja trains had left a while back. Activity in the station-yard began to diminish. Trams had already passed in front of the station several times. Local trains began to arrive, one by one, filled with traders from the countryside and employees who lived in the suburbs. The bicycle-paths began to fill up with bicycles and betjak, and the main streets with motorized vehicles. In an empty passenger car, Hasan sat alone, wild-eyed, hugging his knees while surveying his surroundings. He listened attentively, and from time to time grasped the knife behind the folds of his trousers and the wallet beside it. He watched the few police who remained in the station. "Ah, rifles just make trouble," he thought. He did not want a rifle any more. What he wanted now was a pistol. But a pistol was a less accurate weapon. The convenient thing was that a pistol could be kept in your pocket and if something happened all you had to do was— bang-bang. End of story. He still remembered using one—one owned by a friend who was a sergeant. But he never hit anything. From five meters he couldn't even hit a large orange. "But I'm not the same now as I was then. I must be up to it. Some day I'll have to confront that djago Djuned. I'll call him out from behind. I'll slap the back of his neck and say, 'How about it? This is one on one. Come on, djago, let's see your

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silat.'1* No, no, he's bound to carry a knife or a gun in his pants' pocket. I'll have to smash his head in with a piece of iron." A creaking on the boxcar floor made him leap up and direct his gaze to where the sound had come from. Instinctively his hand reached for the knife in his trousers. A soft voice: "San, he's gone." "long?" "Huh? He's gone." Otong approached and the two of them sat side by side on a bench. "Pay what I owe to the cake-vendor, long." Hasan held out several paper notes. "You're so nervous. Stay with me tonight, San." "It's okay. Ill sleep alone." "You afraid I'll snatch your money?" "It's not that, long. I trust you. But I don't want you to get in trouble if something happens." "What's going on?" "Here, take my money from this morning. Six perak. Take it and go gamble." "San, Sidik is just trying to scare you. We could take him together, right?" "For what? He's a good guy, isn't he? It's just that he's always short of money. Too many mistresses. The Benteng Chinese, the one from Krawang, the one from Banten. No money, but still wants to go on the hajj.15 Damn, he doesn't know when he's got it good. But he's a good person, Tong." "It's true, I'm not like you at all, San." "Just go." "All right, I'm leaving." Otong got up. With a cheerful face he jumped down from the boxcar and without looking back, hopped from rail to rail and headed out of the station to a place beside the bicycle-path. In an instant he vanished into a gang of dice-players. Excited yells of encouragement could be heard from time to time, punctuated by the ringing bells of bicycles and betjak, automobile horns, and the clanging of trams. "One, eight. Who else? Don't sew your pockets shut. If it's only the money, you can get more tomorrow. Come on, come on, come on! Six. Who's next? No one else? Look! Watch out! Open your eyes. Robber cat! Kitchen Satan! Hobby-horse from who knows where.16 Come on! Open your eyes. T/i'r/17 Four, bung. Into the pocket. Dealer wins." The voices of the dealer and his followers competed with the surrounding din. Only when a train came by with a long roar did the voices of the gamblers vanish altogether. Several betjak drivers got down from their vehicles, groped at their pockets and slipped into the group of players. Some of them came right back out with sour looks on their faces, or with relief, and pedaled off. Suddenly there was a sharp whistle from the edge of the station-yard. The players gazed down steadily at their money laid out on a large piece of paper divided into numbered boxes. But the loud whistle made the dealers of all three games, as well as their henchmen, stand up. They peered out between the heads of crouching and standing players in the direction of the street. "The cops," one of them said. "Don't look for trouble, dealer. What do you mean, the cops?" "Hear that whistle? That's the signal from my spies." Part of the group took off. But several men surrounded the dealer.

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"Don't run off now just because you won/' But these dealers were used to facing people upset by their losses. "Dealer's choice," they said. And they were unafraid because they had bodyguards. Otong leapt up cheerfully. With both hands in his pockets he reentered the station. His initial destination was the empty carriage where Hasan sat brooding. But before he got there he turned around and went out again. On the station verandah he bought four packets of rice and carried them over to the carriage. His chest was bare and shone in the sun. Yesterday he'd been forced to sell his only shirt when he gambled and lost. Hasan was no longer in the carriage. "San! San!" Once he was sure that his friend was not there he went on to other carriages. In one of the wooden boxcars he encountered Hasan, who studied his friend's arrival while his hand stroked the folds of his trousers. "Ha! This time I won! Lucky the cops came. If not I'd have been left high and dry again. Fifteen, San. Not too bad. Come on, let's eat, eat our fill of good food. Then sleep. What you doing, rubbing at your pants?" "Just itchy. Maybe they haven't been washed for too long." "Want me to wash them this evening?" "That's all right." "Just buy new ones. You have two thousand, don't you?" "Pig! Who says I have two thousand?" "Sidik." "Where does he get an idea like that?" "Ah, Sidik, he's always full of ideas. You know how he is. Every day he keeps track of your savings.18 He told me that you save fifteen a day. That's the minimum, he says. Usually twenty-five a day." "And you believe him?" "I believe and don't believe." "Does he think I can print money?" "Come on, what gives you that idea? Let's eat. How can you get so worried just because someone makes up a story about you. Me, Otong, I never spy on other people's business. Swear to God and hope to die. I'm happy living here. My only debts are to you." They ate. Otong with his usual gusto and Hasan with his suspicions. "Your eyes are wild, San. Why are you so afraid of Sidik?" "I'm not feeling well, Tong. I can't work any more today." "Maybe you're afraid I'll steal your money. No, San. If I was a bad guy, hah, I'd scoop up your riches in a minute. If it was difficult I'd team up with Sidik. Don't worry, San." And after eating they wiped their hands on the walls of the boxcar then on the legs of their pants. They sniffed at their fingers from time to time and said, "Very good cooking. Yeah, very nice." "You're not going to work any more, Tong?" Otong looked cautiously at Hasan and then poured out his feelings. "Really, San, your eyes are wild and red. I bet you didn't sleep a wink last night. Didn't I tell you I can keep you company when you sleep so that you'll feel safe. Don't you know I don't have any bad intentions? Ah damn you, why do you want to torture yourself?" "You're not going to work any more?" he repeated.

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"What is it? Why do you always want to be by yourself?" Otong shook his head. Anxiety shone in his eyes. He was concerned about the condition of his friend—a sincere concern that arose from the depths of his heart. And Hasan recognized the sincerity of his friend. In his heart he acknowledged the proffered help, but in his own way he rejected it. "You're not going to work?" he repeated. "I just want to sleep now. If you don't want my company, that's it, I'll move on." And without receiving a reply he moved to a different carriage. He glanced back briefly, spying on his friend. But his full stomach had greater authority than his concern for Hasan. A moment later he collapsed and fell asleep on a bench behind a carriage door. The din of the traffic on the street and on the bicycle-path was almost powerless to penetrate the station and reach Hasan's ears. The noise within the station was more powerful. Hasan's eyes were bleary from sleepiness and fatigue, especially after glancing stealthily here and there for so long. They had examined too many people from a distance. "He's gone now. I pray he's gone to hell." He monitored the movements of several remaining police officers. Again his gaze fixed on the pistol at their commander's waist. And his eyes gleamed for an instant. "With one pistol and a couple of hundred bullets I could wipe out that bastard Djuned and his gang. Maybe right now he's having a good time with my wife in Kebun Jeruk. Maybe in Tangerang, or in Tjiawi. I must get him! I'll finish him off! I will! I'll finish him, finish him, finish him!" One of his feet stamped the floor of the carriage so heavily that it shuddered and clanged. "Lord! Lord! My Lord! Give me the strength to get him! Get him! Get him! Yes, Lord, yes, Master, yes, All Powerful Allah! They're criminals, they're bastards, they're the forces of Satan that You have cursed. Yes, Lord I won't be committing a sin if I kill them. No, right? They just make Your world filthy when in fact it should be pure and lovely. Give me strength, give me the task, let me wipe them off the face of this earth." "Lord, don't give this task to the police." Again his eyes observed several policemen who were wandering about. "Give it to me, to me, Lord!" The vengeance that had crept through his heart now made his prayers more urgent. Again he stamped the floor of the carriage as hard as he could. Three times, four times. The police commander stood below the station-sign and scanned the station's horizon. Hasan stretched out his body on one of the benches. His stamping on the floor grew weaker but was still audible from a few dozen meters off. And in the end the police commander approached Hasan's spot and climbed with cautious steps into the carriage. As he neared the place he sought, the commander caught sight of some hair falling over the back of a bench. He kept coming closer, then stood in silence examining Hasan. And Hasan was not aware of him. It was as if the chills of a fever had returned to Hasan's foot. He raised his leg up high and brought it down full force on the floor. "You die! You die!" His hands, indeed his whole body, trembled with the cresting rage that swept through his brain. "Hey, Scarface! What's wrong with you?" Hasan jumped up. In a single movement he stood before the police officer with one hand grasping at his trousers. "Ah, pak. You startled me half to death." "Why are you making such a racket in here? Sick? Why aren't you working?" "Sick,pflJt." "Fever?"

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"Fever, pak." The policeman offered him some blue pills that he took from his trouser pocket. "Here, eat three of these a day." And Hasan accepted the pills. He didn't count them, just put them into his back pocket. "Thank you, pak." "Been sick for long?" "Since yesterday, pak." "Lucky I found out. Lucky I still have pills. If not, you'd be dead. If you died here who would know?" "Thank you, pak, thank you." "You eat already?" "Yes,p*fc." "Eat much?" "Ah, I didn't feel like it, pakf just a little." "Got any money?" "No, pak."

The commander offered several bank notes and Hasan took them. "Thank you, pak" as he put them into his back pocket. The policeman regarded him with pity. Then he sat down. Hasan took a seat as well and they sat facing one another. But Hasan bowed his head, staring at his outward-curving big toe, on the foot of a boy from upcountry who only wore shoes once a year. "On duty much longer, pak?" "Four more hours and then I'm relieved." Now Hasan's eyes took in and committed to memory the pistol hidden at the commander's waist. Sweet little bullets slipped into the chambers, sparkling as if they were asking him to own them. "What are you looking at?" Hasan cast his gaze elsewhere. "My pistol?" Hasan grimaced. "The pistol is really beautiful." Hasan felt his way. "Must be you never held a pistol." He took the gun from its holster and handed it to Hasan. "Careful, its loaded, but the safety's on. But be careful." "Really beautiful. Like a child's toy." "Yes, like a child's toy, but it can kill you." "It's just that when I see a pistol it makes me want to become a police officer, pak." "You want to become a police officer?" He laughed. "You're too much! You think it's easy to become a policeman, huh? Can you read and write?" "No, pak."

"Damned Scarface! Can't read and write and still wants to become a policeman. Only because you want a pistol? Then just buy some little air pistol." Hasan snorted with laughter. "Not heavy enough, pak. If someone were willing to lend me one, I'd really like to borrow it." "Why borrow a pistol? Dangerous, isn't it?" "Ah, I'm not a kid any more. I know how to be careful. " Hasan contemplated the pistol while weighing the mind of the police commander. "While we're on the subject, would you mind if I borrowed it, pak?" "What for?"

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"Just for fun." "You're really too much. Not sick any more either!" "I got better, thanks to your coming here, pak. Are you on duty later tonight, pakl" "Huh? You know no one's on duty at night here." "In my kampung, pak, I have paddy fields and dry-rice fields. It's not planting season now so I work here as a coolie. Maybe I can save up enough to build a new house." "As for me, I'm not interested in owning paddy-fields or dry-rice fields." "I have savings of a few thousand too." "You?" "Yes,paJfc." "Why did you take money from me then?" "It was a gift, wasn't it, pak? Good fortune should never be rejected." "Sometime can I come and visit your house?" "Certainly, pak/' Hasan felt his money again. "In these pants I have some savings too, pak. Don't be angry, pak, but I really want to borrow a pistol. If you like, pak, you could take these savings." "Talking like that could become a serious matter, Scarface," said the policeman laughing. "You're really crazy. Already full grown but still wanting to play with pistols. A coolie who says he has property, rice-fields, and thousands in savings. You're too much, Scarface." Hasan took his wallet out of his pants. "Look, pak, if you don't believe me. Look!" The policeman stood and approached the wallet. His eyes glistened. Hasan began counting and by the end the total sum was one thousand six hundred fortyfive rupiah. "You didn't steal it, San?" Hasan's playful laughter rang out to allay the suspicions of the policeman; then he played his hand. "If you wish, pak, you can take all of the money, but I really want to borrow the weapon." The policeman sat down again and stretched out. His eyes contemplated the distance. Hasan put the wallet back in his pants pocket. He began to tell a story: "It's true I'm a bit odd, pak, like my dad. My dad would go to the limit to buy birds and fighting-cocks. Sometimes he had the nerve to pay two thousand rupiah for one rooster. But me, I'm different. Ever since I was small I always wanted to have a pistol." The policeman straightened out his body. His gaze was directed through the window towards the platform. But the platform wasn't visible—blocked by other passenger-cars. "You want to borrow the pistol for long?" "That's right, pak, for about a week." "You're not planning to kill someone?" With this question the policeman's eyes turned to the sword-slash engraved on one of Hasan's cheeks. "Why would I want to kill someone, pak? Who would I want to kill?" "You don't want to rob?"

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"You must be joking, pak. Would someone with my face want to resort to crime? I'd be spotted a mile away." "How did your face get scarred like that?" "People say, pak, that during the Revolution it got slashed by a sword." "You fought in the Revolution?" "Waft, come on, pakl I was still just a child then." The policeman stretched out again on the bench. He resumed his calculations. The fingers of his right hand drummed on the bench. Suddenly: "I can lend it, but not for a whole week. Not because of an inspection but because sometimes the pistol has to be left in the office if there is a commander I don't know." "How about this, pak. You use it in the daytime, pak, and give it to me at night. Swear to God and hope to die, I won't rob or kill anyone. I just want to hug it when I'm sleeping." The policeman roared with laughter. Then abruptly he fell silent and began to muse again. "It's all right, isn't it, pak?" "But if people discover that you have a pistol it will be the end for me." "Oh, for goodness sake, you talk as if I were still just a child." The policeman lost himself again in contemplation. Then his eyes lit up. He had arrived at a decision. "All right! Give me your money. I'll lend you my pistol. But watch out! If I come by, the pistol had better be here. You too." They made the exchange. The policeman went off and Hasan quickly hid the weapon in his pants. Only then did Hasan's heart, tortured for so long by the desire to own such a weapon, become calm. His fears that his money might be stolen by Sidik vanished. His face beamed. He stretched out on a bench. A new sense of security freed him of all his cares. He fell asleep. When Otong awoke, the first thing he did was to steal a look at his friend through the doorway. When he realized his friend was asleep he approached cautiously on tiptoe. He stared long and hard at his friend. But longest of all at the bulge in his trousers. He really wanted to know whether or not his friend had thousands. He couldn't control his curiosity and his hand began to search while his eyes fixed on Hasan's. When his friend sighed, Otong was startled, and backed off. But Hasan was deep in his dreams. And when Hasan shifted his feet Otong was startled again. He had no courage to continue his efforts. Only once Hasan seemed calm did he begin again. Yes, now he felt the objects inside the trousers: a long hard object. And this one? A long, thick object, and long too. On his face appeared an expression of great surprise. He stood up and went to sit on a bench facing his friend. He shook his head from side to side. He sat like that for a long time. For hours. Finally dusk arrived. Still he waited for his friend. His stomach felt hungry. But he held on. And as the first train came in he carefully woke his friend. "It's nightfall, San, wake up." Hasan jumped up, grabbing at his trousers. Wild-eyed he stared at Otong. Then: "That you there, Tong?" "Yes." "I fell asleep. You didn't do anything to me just now, did you?"

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"For what? No. Only I'm a bit surprised that you keep grabbing at your trousers all the time/' "Been here long?" "Watching over you? Sure, a long time. More than four hours. Why are you grabbing at your pants again? I already felt it. I wanted to know. What's the pistol for, San? You want to rob somebody?" "Hush. Not so loud." Hasan's face was a picture of dismay. Through the boxcar window his eyes darted around wildly. But all he saw were groups of passengers getting off the train from Bogor. Otong drew closer and in a whisper asked again, "What's the pistol for?" Hasan could not reply. He kept silent. He tried to think of a plausible reason but couldn't. "If he tells the police—if he wants to harm me—if he tells someone else—if he . . . " He covered his face with his hands. His chest felt constricted. At last in a tone of supplication he whispered, "You won't tell anyone, will you?" Otong stared at Hasan questioningly. He shook his head. But still Hasan wasn't ready to believe him. "You really won't tell?" Otong shook his head, then whispered, "What's the pistol for?" Again Hasan covered his face with his hands. He really couldn't reply to his friend's question. "What's the matter, San?" "Don't ask me again, long. I can't say anything." "Who you want to kill, Sidik?" Hasan shook his head. "Oh now I know. Intjup and Djuned. I see now. Right?" Hasan's gaze fell to the floor. He could not betray his plans. He didn't want anyone to know. He didn't want to be thrown in jail. He wanted to live as a free man; not forced or ordered about by anyone. He only wanted to take his revenge. He just wished to diminish the number of the wicked in this world. And there was nothing criminal about it. For him it was an obligation. But the police would surely arrest him for murder. "You don't want to answer, San? You know I always help you. I want to come along with you to look for Intjup and Djuned. I understand your pain, San. Don't treat me like a naive child running around in tjelana monjet. 19A11 this time, you've never trusted me. Is it that I don't look trustworthy? Hey, why are you so pale, San? Don't worry, I won't reveal your secret." "Tong ...." Hasan could not continue. "Hasan, Hasan, you have a lot on your mind. You mistrust everyone, even your friends. How can your heart be at peace, San?" "Don't talk about it, long. I can't speak." "All right then. I'm going to work tonight." And without looking back he stepped down from the carriage and vanished behind a row of trains arrived from four cities. Hasan stretched out again on the bench. He began to think of all the possible disasters that would happen, might happen and, in fact, could happen any moment. He regretted falling asleep. Ah, I should have said that it wasn't a pistol. I should have jokingly replied: 'You're dreaming, it's not a pistol. How can you mistake a hammer for a pistol?' But then Otong would have asked, 'Why keep a hammer in your pants?'

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Hasan could not reach a decision. He got up and walked off aimlessly, leaving the carriage behind him. He felt no anxiety about Sidik any more. But his suspicions grew and took shape in the body of his friend Otong. Night descended peacefully. Hasan came to a faucet, drank several gulps, washed his face, throat, neck, and hands, and then walked on. At the end of an empty freight-car he caught a glimpse of Sidik. But he was not afraid. Sidik only had designs on his money, and he had no money. The moon gleamed full overhead. Ah, Sidik, maybe he thinks I still have money. He laughed to himself. But he was not so foolhardy as to proceed to the platform where many policemen stood watch and moved about with their rifles. As the night wore on the cold invaded his body through the pores of his skin. Hasan ignored Sidik, who was wandering back and forth. He lay down on the wooden roof of one of the boxcars. He curled up tight to warm his entire body. Even though his heart was rather calm, he slept restlessly, because the cold couldn't be so easily resisted. Any plan to sleep in a passenger-carriage, he consistently abandoned. His mistrust of everything had held vast power over him ever since he had been forced to flee his home. The station was silent. No more passengers arrived or departed. Only at times did the echoing conversations between vagabonds and passengers from out of town, waiting to depart the next morning, reach his ears from the verandah. That was normal. From time to time his thoughts returned to his vanished wife. Sometimes to ... and he smiled. He could not refrain from thinking how Sidik would react once he realized that he had no money whatsoever. At times his thoughts were extinguished and his anger rose up as he remembered the faces of the thugs who had destroyed the happiness of his household. A creaking noise below caused him to crane his neck and look downward. And he saw Sidik trying to climb to the roof of the boxcar. He pretended to sleep. The sounds of Sidik's approach became increasingly clear. At last he felt breath on his face. "San, Hasan," he heard a low whisper. And still he kept quiet. Now he felt the touch of a groping hand. Suddenly Hasan started. He remembered his pistol. The fear that his pistol might be taken from him made him to unleash a hard kick with his right foot. It struck Sidik, who lost his footing, falling backwards. But before he rolled to the ground he was able to grab hold of Hasan's foot. Hasan was dragged downwards, but he grasped the edge of the boxcar roof and the two of them hung suspended. Once Sidik's foot touched the ground he tightened his grip on Hasan's leg. His eyes gazed upwards and the moon shone clear between two swirling clouds. "Get down, you bastard!" With one pull, Hasan fell down. "Where's your money?" Hasan fell, and crawled, trying to stand up. But Sidik already had him by the neck. "I'll kill you if ...." and with one kick, Hasan fell down again. Sidik's arrogance and sadistic violence caused Hasan's anger to rise. The young man, who had no future and could only store up vengeance, jumped to his feet and summoned all his strength. He faced Sidik with an anger that trembled in his chest. "You want to fight me? Watch you don't scream. I'll strangle you to death if you do."

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But Hasan no longer heard the threats. His hands trembled and hardened into powerful fists. "Don't come near me if you want to live." Sidik threatened. "Just hand over your money." But Hasan slowly advanced one footstep at a time. His feet heavy, like iron claws clutching the earth beneath them. When Hasan was quite near, Sidik attacked. He kicked his prey and Hasan fell back. Struck at the waist, he almost could not get up again. His head hit a rail and he saw stars dancing like fireflies. The golden moon vanished from his view and the sky was scattered with green, white, and golden clouds. He heard Sidik's taunting laughter. He also heard his enemy approach, and his hand reaching out again to grope at his pocket. Hasan gathered his forces again and leapt. He struck his opponent in the neck. Sidik staggered back and fell to his knees. Hasan growled—this polite and pious youth had now become a ferocious tiger. Step by step he approached his foe. "Don't come any closer," Sidik warned. "Don't come any closer." But the young man had lost all sense of fear. Sidik had also forgotten his initial purpose. All he thought of now was repaying Hasan for the blow to his neck which had frozen his blood for an instant and felt like the slash of an electric cable. "Don't come any closer," he hissed again. And he rolled up one of his sleeves. "If you want to get acquainted with one of Sidik's fists, wait there! Don't panic." Hasan kept coming, and hurriedly Sidik rolled up his other sleeve. "Good! Come on!" Sidik pounced on Hasan. They grappled in the moonlight—and in that same moonlight Otong was embracing a woman that he had met two hours earlier on the street beside Gambir Square. The sounds of vagabonds and prospective passengers on the station verandah were no longer audible and midnight had long passed. Between the boxcars and on the railway tracks the battle continued to rage. From time to time the sounds of thudding kicks and of necks eluding crushing holds could be heard. Finally Hasan was caught in Sidik's grasp and could not move. "You die! You die!" With his other fist he struck Hasan's face. Hasan's efforts to escape the hold met with no success. He tried to parry but he could not avoid the strength of Sidik's steel hands. Hands that increasingly cut into his neck. No! No way! I must think of something. If I don't, Sidik will strangle me to death. Sidik's hand stopped punching and began to grope inside Hasan's pants. With his free hand Hasan attacked Sidik's balls, and this caused the stranglehold to loosen. And Hasan used this opportunity to throw down his foe. At last he was free again. But now Sidik was truly enraged. On the other hand Hasan had regained his composure. Just when his opponent nearly caught him again, he pulled his knife from his pants. Sidik drew back when he saw the weapon gleaming in the moonlight. But Hasan pressed forward. "There are no witnesses, Sidik. None. If you yell, this knife will eat your heart." "Mercy, San, mercy," said Sidik softly. "You can't escape me now. If you get away you'll come looking for me tomorrow," Hasan continued. "No, San, no." "There is no mercy now. There are no witnesses. I'll finish you off here." "I'll call for the police!" "If you dare, scream—just try it."

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Sidik kept retreating. Unaware, his foot got caught in a rail and he fell. Hasan did not attack, but just stood there looking down at him. "Stand up! I won't attack a fallen man. Not like you, attacking people when they're asleep." "Come on, stand up!" Hasan kicked him in the ass. Sidik whimpered as he lay sprawled. "Mercy, San. Let me go home." "Come on, get up!" Sidik obeyed. He stood. And Hasan slashed his face with the tip of his knife. Blood dripped out. And Sidik whimpered. "Let me go, San. Mercy!" "No mercy anymore." Sidik retreated step by step. As Hasan pursued his adversary, they approached a heap of earth, sheltered by a tree, where Otong slept in the grass. "I'll bow down before you, San. I'll kneel to you. But let me go home." Hasan snorted. "I don't know. Everyone wants to destroy me." Hasan whispered. "You too, bastard." "I was wrong, San. I admit it." For a moment Hasan considered allowing his enemy to go home. But in the end he concluded that the man who was in his power now, would, in the future— perhaps even tomorrow or the next day, come to torment him worse than ever. I must finish him off. I want to live too. And once he had arrived at the decision he thrust the gleaming moonlit blade right into the heart of his foe. For an instant Sidik screamed in agony, then collapsed. Hasan left the scene, jumping over the station fence, and vanished. The clouds surrounding the moon now veiled it entirely. Deep darkness shrouded the area. Only Sidik's gasping breath. The sound of shoes running. After that, the sound of bare feet nearby—the feet of a terrified Otong who was trying to escape to a passenger-carriage. A moment later the winking beams of flashlights; and when the light fell on Sidik's body, shouts, finally followed by a command. "Surround the station!" Immediately thereafter came the sounds of running feet. And four pairs of police boots approached the body and lifted it. Not far off Otong was apprehended by the police and escorted roughly to the verandah. Soon after, Sidik's body was brought there too. His head flopped limply from side to side with the movements of the people who carried him. His mouth was open, and from it came short, heavy gasps. Otong shivered at the sight of the blood that poured out on the floor. And when he saw the knife still planted in the chest he fainted. As time went by, more and more people crowded round. From afar came the siren of an ambulance, and moments later the victim, on a stretcher, was put inside, then taken to the hospital. "Know him? Know him?" the police asked Otong once he regained his senses. Otong nodded his head weakly. "What's his name?" "Sidik." "Where does he live?" "Don't know, pak." "How come you don't know?"

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"I met him here." "Is he here often?" Again Otong nodded. "What was he doing here so often?" "He is a Gambir crocodile."20 The uniformed men, and the others surrounding him, laughed. "Did you ever feel the crocodile's teeth?" "No,pafc." "How do you know he's a crocodile if he never bit you?" Otong had no answer. "Answer!" the people shouted. But Otong truly could not answer them. "Answer! Answer me now! Why do you keep silent? You want to get beaten up?" "People say so, pak." "What people?" Again Otong fell silent. "Where were you earlier?" Otong pointed to the place where he had been curled in amorous embrace with his friend. "What were you doing there?" Once again, Otong could not answer. "Why did you run away." "Afraid, pak." "Why be afraid?" "Someone screamed and I got scared." "What's your name?" Otong gave his name. When he was asked where his home was, he became confused; still, he went on to tell them how, half a year ago, he had abandoned his home because he was unable to feed his wife and children. He was suddenly overcome by sadness when his audience didn't take seriously his reasons for moving away from home. He felt worthless in the presence of these agents of the government. He bowed his head and he thought of Hasan. He longed to know where Hasan was now. He knew from the facts of the situation that it was his friend who had killed Sidik. He remembered the pistol in the waistband of his pants. And he remembered that Sidik was always after him. "Why did you kill him?" Yet another question. Otong bowed his head still further. Only when he heard footsteps approaching did he lift his face and see the woman that he had made love to a little earlier being escorted towards him by the police. "This bitch also ran like hell," one of the new arrivals announced. Again Otong bowed his head. "You know this woman?" Otong truly hadn't the courage to lift his head: he was afraid to meet the woman's gaze. "You know this man?" An angry question directed at the woman. The voice of the woman was faintly audible. "Yes, I know him, pak." "Where did you meet ?" "By the side of the street." "Which street?" "The street by Gambir Square." "You're a whore, aren't you? A slut?"

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The woman did not reply. "You know Sidik?" "Which Sidik, pafc?" "The one who was just killed." "I know many Sidiks, pak" "Hey Otong, tell your whore which of the Sidiks it was you killed." Otong's thoughts were in total disarray. He felt as if he were being burned alive by the hail of questions that he was required to answer and for which he had no answer. He thought again of Hasan and decided that he was surely not to blame. But the torment of the interrogation was unbearable. His lips quivered. He was terrified. "Hey, what was it you said your name was?" "Otong, pak." "So you were jealous of Sidik, weren't you?" "No,pafc.No.Really,no." "Why did you stab Sidik if you weren't jealous? You said Sidik was a crocodile. You're a crocodile too, right?" The woman began to weep. "Which one did you choose?" the man asked the woman, "Sidik or Otong?" "PaJt, I don't know which Sidik you're talking about." The police could not arrive at a satisfactory conclusion. So the two prisoners were taken off to the police station. And all the way Otong thought constantly of his friend Hasan. He felt deeply that in Hasan there was something he respected: a firm resolve to carry out his duty as the head of his household. Otong too had once tried to be a good family man. For that Hasan had had to endure less than happy times and events. And he, Otong, had sought in pleasure a way to avoid his own responsibilities. Such thoughts convinced him not to open his mouth and mention his friend's name. Sidik died some time after his arrival at the hospital. Examination of the fingerprints on the hilt of the knife got Otong dismissed as the primary suspect. But he was still held in custody. The woman—his sexual partner—was released after a few days, and was charged only with curfew violation, vagrancy, and immorality. The day after the killing there were no homeless people hanging around the station; that night they had all been rounded up and taken to the police station. No prospective passengers slept on the verandah either. Night at Gambir was silent and desolate. One morning, things were back to normal—the station was once again full of food-vendors with their flickering lanterns and cooking-fires illuminating the space around them. In his customary location, Sidik's, Hasan's, and Otong's favorite cake-vendor was open for business. For more than a month he had not seen a trace of any of the three. Sidik still had a two perak tab with him. But it wasn't the debt that made him miss them. He was too accustomed to Otong and Hasan, and to Sidik's efforts to avoid paying his debts. Often he inquired where they had gone. He worried that they might be involved in the murder that he heard about right and left. Then a coolie sat down at his bench. He noted the brass badge pinned to his jacket. "So coolies have to wear badges now?" he asked. "Sure do. Too many illegals around."

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"What do you mean, illegals?" "Look, think about it. When someone got killed nobody knew who did it. But in fact everyone knows it must have been a coolie." "How can you be sure a coolie did it?" "Who else? An illegal coolie for sure. Coolies who have no homes and sleep in the boxcars. Working as coolies while stealing." "You know any of them?" "A whole lot." "You know Hasan?" "Hasan Scarface? Sure, I know him. Oh yeah, come to think of it, I haven't seen him in a long time." 'Thafs why I'd like to know where he is now." "Why's that?" "He still owes me money." "After what happened I haven't heard any news of him. Nor seen his face either." The man tried to think, but nothing came to him. In the end he just shook his head and said he really didn't know. "KnowOtong?" "Sure, who doesn't?" "Where is he?" The man thought again and shook his head. "KnowSidik?" "He's the one who got killed." "The one who got killed!!" the cake-vendor cried out in shock. "Good Lord! Now I find out! He's the one that was killed? Who killed him?" "I dunno. All the guys sleeping in the boxcars were arrested." "Everyone? Hasan too? Otong too?" "Otong was arrested. But Hasan, I didn't hear they got him." The cake-vendor picked up a fan and began to wave it over the fire. He thought of Hasan again. He was sure that only Hasan was capable of killing Sidik. That quiet Hasan! That kind, warmhearted but silent and brooding Hasan. Hasan had said that thugs were after him in his home kampung, he thought to himself. Here Sidik was after him. Yeah, he must be the killer. No other possibility. Then he remembered the morning when Sidik had begun to spy on Hasan, and Otong had let him know. He remembered how Hasan had taken off in another direction and for days was invisible. He must have been forced to do it. Sidik made him. "What're you daydreaming about?" asked the customer. The cake-vendor sighed. "More coffee?" he asked. "Ah you really are some cake-vendor. Why refill a full cup of coffee?" "I was thinking of the young ones—Otong and Hasan—so young and already arrested." The customer laughed and finally said, "That's what happens when people don't stay in one place, every kind of evil draws near." "Why was Sidik killed?" "Dunno!" "Then how can you say it was evil?"

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The customer could not reply. He thought for a moment. Finally he defended himself. "But killing people is evil, isn't it? Even butchering a chicken without praying is considered evil/' The two of them fell silent. Another customer took a seat and ordered coffee. Without being invited he began a conversation. "Have you heard?" he asked. "Heard what?" the other customer replied. "Remember that police commander that was on duty last week?" "Officer DulKarnain?" "Yeah. Yesterday he was arrested by the military police." "Who did you hear that from?" "From his men of course. Know why they arrested him?" The two men stared at the new customer. Their mouths were still. Not because of any great excitement but because they were not particularly interested. Hasan and Otong were on their minds and not the police commander. "He sold his pistol!" "Sold his pistol!" "You know who bought it?" This news captured their full attention. And with awe they scrutinized the lips of the newcomer. "You'd never guess. Only I know." "Who?" the cake-vendor asked. He thought of Hasan, and he remembered how he sold his life to get a lot of money. "Ha-san." he said. "Hasan Scarface." "Hasan!" the earlier customer shouted. But the cake-vendor bowed his head. He knew everything. He immediately picked up his fan and built up the fire to hide his knowledge. In his heart he prayed that Hasan had been able to take revenge on the thugs who had shattered his life. "So Hasan is on the run now?" "Yeah, on the run/' "Why did Hasan buy a pistol?" "For banditry perhaps. What else?" Nervously the cake-vendor served him cakes and a cup of coffee. He took a gulp of his own, then washed the cups that were dirty. He almost couldn't bear to listen to the mistaken ideas people had about the young man for whom he secretly cared. And once his two customers had departed he prayed alone for Hasan's wellbeing. "What did he do wrong?" his heart rebelled. "He was so pious, so honest, so diligent, and he saved his money. He was unpretentious and he was happy to help everybody. He always paid his debts and he never cheated me." Again he imagined Hasan's face. Quickly he built up the fire. "Now he's on the run. Bought a pistol. Killed Sidik. Even though he is not evil." "Where could he have gone? He has no home. His relatives won't dare take him in. If I only knew where he was. Ah, even I wouldn't have the courage to give him shelter." Only with the arrival of new customers did his sadness lessen. He could understand the young man's difficulties. And after pouring the coffee he lit the kretek cigarette that his wife had made for him. Only that cigarette smoke could warm his

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heart. From various certified coolies he learned more about Hasan. Some of them were quite sure that he would soon be arrested because of the big scar on his face. That evening the cake-vendor brought news back home with him. News about a young man of whom he often spoke at home. The young man that he liked so much was now on the run and everyone was sure he'd be caught at any moment— humiliated, beaten, brought to trial, judged, sentenced—for only a single reason. And the cake-vendor couldn't formulate what that reason was. If he could, he might have said: "Hasan was only trying to live like other people do, free from the threat of murder and endless pursuit." And that would by no means be the end of his suffering. One morning when he had just opened his stall a young man came and sat silently on his bench. "Coffee," he said. The cake-vendor knew that voice by heart. "Hasan," he uttered a shocked whisper. "Get out of here fast! The police are after you!" "The police are looking for me?" "Yeah, you're wanted by the police." "What's the problem?" "You bought a pistol. The police commander has been arrested. He confessed." Quickly Hasan downed his coffee. "You're not lying?" he asked. "I pray you won't be caught. Just go quickly. What's that pistol for?" "I wanted to return it to the commander. I already shot those thugs." "But you're on the run now..." Hasan reached into his pockets but the cake-vendor refused payment. "If I had a lot of money I'd give it to you so you wouldn't have to be so miserable." "Thank you, thank you," said Hasan. "If you hadn't told me I'd be arrested by now." He rose quickly, crossed the road, and vanished behind the buildings on Pedjambon Street. Above his head hovered a threat that he would constantly have to elude. In front of him an empty, desolate future. In his heart vengeance had disappeared and was now replaced by fear. In his pocket a pistol and a few remaining bullets. And from now on he would become a creature of the night. Sometimes with a pistol and sometimes with a knife he would seek his livelihood. This simple boy from the countryside would be forced to follow in the footsteps of all the criminals who have made history upon this earth, with an end already prepared for him as well. 1

The speaker here is using the Djakarta dialect, as will all the other characters in the story. The translators did not choose to import 1950s English slang terms to render Djakarta dialect. 2 Pal Merah is a district in Jakarta to the west of Tanah Abang. 3 The Djakarta-dialect oath used here, pedjadjaran, is said to come from the ancient HinduBuddhist Sundanese kingdom of Padjadjaran, and thus has the first meaning of "infidel." But here it has no specific religious intent. * Djago—literally, fighting-cock; more generally, a feared and sometimes admired local tough or strongman.

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Mobilet—an early predecessor of the moped; a bicycle that has been customized with a motor. 6 Talen—one quarter of a rupiah 7 The "Benteng [Fortress] Chinese" have a curious history. After the anti-Chinese panic and massacre of 1740, the United East India Company set up a fortress in the Tangerang area, west of Batavia, where many Chinese were living. Under intensive surveillance and menace, most of these Chinese stayed or remained peasant-farmers till modern times, unlike their compatriots elsewhere who became successful traders and merchants. Hence "Benteng Chinese" came to mean Chinese of the lowest, most despised social status. 8 Bantji—male transvestite, hermaphrodite, effeminate boy or man, homosexual. By later extension, cowardly, sexually timid, shilly-shallying. 9 Mas—the polite word for elder brother in Javanese, and, by extension, for any somewhat older man or one of somewhat higher status than the speaker. 10 Al Kabir (Arabic)—Almighty, originally with reference to Allah. 11A pun: the name "Al Kabir" sounds like the verb kebiri, which means to castrate. 12 Bung—colloquial word for "brother," implying equal status between the speaker and addressee, it acquired strong positive political connotations during the Revolution of 1945-49, when even the highest leaders were referred to as, e.g. Bung Hatta, Bung Sjahrir, Bung Tomo, to say nothing of Bung (Su)Karno. 13 Pasar Dean (Fish Market), a district of North Djakarta near the sea. 14 Silat—Malay/Indonesian term for traditional martial arts; also pentjak. 15 The hajj is the pilgrimage to Mecca. l^ The first two curses are said to be typical of Djakarta housewives yelling at neighborhood cats raiding their kitchens. Hobby-horses (kuda lumping) are those used specially for trancedances by wandering rural theatrical troupes. I7 Tjir—an exclamation meant as a provocation or insult. lg In the original, the word is tjelengan, which means, literally, piggy-bank. 19 Tjelana monjet—monkey-pants. Simple one-piece children's playsuit. 20 In the original, the word buaja refers literally to crocodile, but by extension can mean any sexually or monetarily predatory man.

VII. MISCARRIAGE OFA WOULD-BE PLAYWRIGHT (AMSTERDAM, OCTOBER 1953)

For the past two years, he has been unable to come to terms with the infantile condition of drama within the field of Indonesian arts. "Why isn't it possible?" he fortifies his hopes. "They can carve statues straight out of stone without any preparation, without any training! The sculptor's blood, suppressed for centuries, suddenly bursts into the open. Why not with drama? Drama is even older than literature." And when his desire to create drama is no longer containable, he goes off to Kila's house. But Kila only laughs, and ends up augmenting the laughter with words that shatter his hopes: "So you too want to try your hand at drama?" "Why do you say that?" he asks. "Why? Even Europe is no longer able to create drama. Drama died forever after Ibsen and Strindberg. Since then, it's just been a hobby-horse mounted from the right and from the left."1 And with faded hopes, shaking his head, he returns to his lodgings. He takes a quarto sheet of paper and tries to sketch out the acts. But his lack of confidence has already fractured the frame of the play he had intended to write. For hours he tries, but with no success. In the end he puts on his shoes and shirt again, and goes out into the night. His destination this time is the usual one: to Pasar Senen to see the lenong.2 He never tires of lenong. It's so alive! It's so true! That which stirs within the inner self and in the outer world fits together and intermingles so well. And the drum gives emphasis to the action and meaning. Watching it makes his soul shiver. Hope flares up within him once again. "I must succeed. I must succeed! And as powerfully as lenong." He hurries home through the cold and darkness. Lenong has given him strength, and this time he won't let go of it. And when he thinks of Kila, he whispers to himself: "It's true he has ten years of experience. But it's only experience in tearing things down. And I need progress. I need creativity. I need fulfillment. I can't live with this emptiness." His feet stride on rapidly, and nothing that he passes attracts his attention. "Hamid!" He is disappointed to have run into a friend. Now he'll have to be attentive to him, even if only for a moment.

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"Where have you been? What? You went to see lenong again? How's your play coming? Are you finished? My friend, in this day and age who wants to put on a play? You don't have any capital, and even if you did, nobody would want to come and watch anyway. Movies are much more dramatic." Once again his hopes are thrown into disarray. "What's wrong with trying?" "Trying? You've never even been in a play." His friend laughs, and then continues, "It's not your fault. Plays are hardly ever put on any more. And even if they are, it's only heavy propaganda that gets them any attention. Beyond that, I doubt if your wallet has enough in it even to pay for a ticket." Hamid walks on, his emotions in turmoil. Now his pace slows down. "They don't believe in me. They don't have faith. Yet faith is exactly what I hoped would serve as capital." When he enters his room again, he smells the odor of cigarettes that clings to his belongings. And he is once again surrounded by an atmosphere that his heart trusts. He hopes one day to be able to write a play. And he's willing to sacrifice everything so long as the results of his creative efforts are accepted by society. He takes several published plays from his book-case and leafs through them . . . Sontani, Idrus, Usmar, Sitor, even Pushkin's Eugene Onegin, Unamuno.3 "I too can do this." And when he thinks of Steinbeck's play Of Mice and Men, he laughs contentedly. They had already won public recognition. But before receiving this recognition, they had forced the results of their writing onto the public. He too will demand such recognition. His heart grows calm and his hopes once again come to the fore. Choosing what to write about was not the problem. For a long time he had yearned for the love of a woman, and yet he was incapable of loving a woman. In all seriousness this was not an original idea of his own, but before he read Tolstoy he hadn't realized it was so. Olenin, the character in Tolstoy's The Cossacks, was the figure who had led him to feel this way, but now the idea belonged to him one hundred percent. Hamid was one of those people who was always so concerned with matters of his own heart that he seldom took notice of what was going on around him. His need for love raged like a hurricane. Quite often he regretted this need, in spite of a friend once frightening him with this pronouncement: "Hamid, if you start moaning about something, it means it has already become a disease in your soul. Your soul may not be truly healthy." After that, Hamid was afraid of meeting this friend, and avoided him whenever possible. He once griped to another friend, Mardi, a short-story writer, who gazed at him calmly, and then said: "Ah . . . that's a good subject for ... No! Not a short-story, the scope is too narrow. No, it's a shattering theme. It must be born in prose . . . . No, not prose. In prose it would be too slow and weak. It must be born in drama. It must be done. It must be underlined! And it must have a thundering musical accompaniment! Music so loud it splits your ears!" "But I've never written anything before," Hamid protested.

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"Never written anything, you say? Isn't it every day that you write? Your thoughts write; your mouth writes; your feelings write. My friend, I am quite sure that you can write! If you can't..." "What if I can't?" "Then your problems will get all bottled up in your head." "So, what's wrong with that?" "Then you'll go crazy." His thoughts then return to that friend of his who had accused him of having a diseased soul, and he becomes frightened. "You have to give birth." Mardi added. For a long time, Hamid weighed what had been said, and eventually he came to accept the words of the short-story writer. I have to give birth to it! So that I relieve the stifling burden within my heart. He bought several plays and studied them. Finally, he made the decision: "Someday I will definitely succeed in writing a play." His efforts at getting books on dramatic theory were fruitless, since he didn't have enough money to buy them; and as for going to the library, laziness was always stronger than his will-power. But when he thought of lenong, which never once made any references to theory, and instead relied completely on the spontaneity of its performers, theory was no longer an obstacle for him. Still more so, when Mardi whispered to him quite confidently: "My friend, the work itself must first be born, then comes the theory. Shakespeare's unique fame comes from his writing. It was only later on that hordes of theorists showed up hanging on his coat-tails. And making a living too, of course." Hamid returns the plays to their book-case. He puts up one of his feet, and becomes pensive as he reaches for his diary with his right hand. It never ceases to puzzle him why he seems fated to be led this way and that by the talk of people who are simply casual friends. He bitterly regrets his inability to make his own decisions. He also regrets his incapacity for friendly interchange, and his way of believing more in his own little room than in the wide world outside, which has in the end made the voice of his own heart his sole companion. Now he opens the diary to the page which contains the slogan that up until now has been his philosophy of life. It is not the product of his own thoughts, but has been copied from the diary of George Washington. "Shut your mouth and use your ears as much as possible." He takes out a pen and writes beneath it, "Could it be that I should use my ears a little less? These ears are making me lose all sense of self! I do so much listening that my own voice never gets a chance to show its strength." That night he sleeps fitfully, his thoughts unresolved. After leaving the office the next day, he tries to find Mardi to ask for advice. His heart forbids him to do this, telling him that by making himself more dependent on the advice of others, he will lose even more of his freedom of thought. So it is at the outset. But he still goes looking for his friend. And he becomes irritated when he can't find Mardi. This irritation only abates when he reaches the secure embrace of his own room, where he feels safe. For hours he sits, his mind vacant of any thoughts. But suddenly his spirit springs to life, and his heart cries: "I must begin now! This instant!" Quickly he takes a sheet of quarto paper from the stack and begins to write, while outside the sun slips slowly down. He chooses the title "Two Human Beings," in accordance with the sum of all of his experiences—that his one and only

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companion is the voice of his own heart. He remembers Mardi's suggestion that the music should be thundering and earsplitting. He thinks over all the suggestions that he has received up to this point. At last he writes rapidly as follows: MOHAMMAD RUSLI ABDUL HAMID TWO HUMAN BEINGS Just before the curtain opens, as the thunder of the music fades: NARRATOR: (whispering) These are human beings who have been broken into two. One half is above this world, enfolded in secret after secret. The other is in another world—a clot of soul, naked and bare. (The curtain opens slowly) Act One Scene One Setting: A study. A book-case full of books, thick and thin, magazines and newspapers. On a desk several books lie open, and on the wall is hung a framed photo of a young woman. A desk chair and an ordinary chair are placed in front of the desk. On top of the book-case sits a radio, tuned in to a station. Human Being 1: Pardan sits facing his diary with a pen in his hand. He is sitting, contemplating a difficult matter. Human Being 2: Pardan stands behind him. PARDAN II (looking at Pardan I) laughs. After looking around he gazes at the diary, and: I don't know what use this diary is. Every day you fill it. And fill it! And yet I still don't know. PARDAN I:

How much can one know? (Shaking his head) How much? (Pounding his head on the desk). PARDAN II: How much? Nobody knows. If a person knows the limit, then he knows how much. PARDAN I: (Shakes his head, then continues writing). PARDAN H: I've made a promise to myself that I won't go near Miriam again. Miriam is a beautiful woman (he gazes for a moment at the photo of the young woman on the wall) who is only good for being loved! Only for being loved! Other than that, she's worthless. And I love her. PARDAN I (gets up and turns the radio knob, looking for a different station. He paces back and forth, then speaks with a slow, heavy voice): Love means giving. PARDAN H, shouting: I'm tired of giving. I've already given everything I have. For once I want to receive—and as much as possible. (A knock at the door)

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PARDANI turning toward the door: Who is it? PARDAN n, slowly: I hope it isn't Miriam. I hope it's somebody I don't know. Then for once I might actually receive something. MIRIAM I enters followed by MIRIAM H who quickly reaches into PARDAN I's pocket. PARDAN I: How are you, darling? PARDAN n (covering his eyes with both hands. Moans): Why must she come here again selling her beauty? I don't have enough money even to look at her. I don't have the time, and this drama of mine still isn't finished either. A hand on his shoulder makes him start with surprise. And when he realizes Mardi has been standing there beside him for a while, die disappointment shows on his face. Mardi, not noticing his disappointment, opens his mouth: "Have you finally started your play?" He takes the sheet of paper on which Hamid has been writing. He begins to read, glancing from time to time at Hamid. Finally: "The room you describe is your own room, the table, the photo, the chairs... Can't you describe a different room?" Before Hamid can answer, he's hit with another question. "Why Pardan One and Pardan Two, Miriam One and Miriam Two?" "In lenong, they blend subjectivity with reality. I want to make them separate. Each part is played by a different actor." "Why have you chosen lenong as your mentor? There are plenty of fine plays in your book-case that would make good enough guides." "But none of them fit very well. There is neither a strong division between reality and subjectivity, nor is there a strong link between them." "Maybe you ought to study Pirandello." "Pirandello?" Hamid has never heard that name before. He feels humbled. He feels empty. What had once filled his chest to bursting has now melted away completely. And his chest? Totally perforated like a wall riddled with steel bullets. He puts the first page of his play in the drawer. His desire to talk is completely extinguished. "Why are you so quiet?" "I don't know much about playwrights and their work." "Why should that break your spirit?" "Mardi, right now I need to give birth to something. But almost everyone tells me the same thing: you don't need to give birth, what you need at this point is to know something beforehand." "You're depressed, Hamid. A writer can't proceed simply by being depressed. That's no use to him. A writer is a heroic individual, a rebel. Listen, I can tell you what it takes to be a writer, because I am one myself. A writer is a source of energy, who, in each product of his writing, pits his own energy against the energy of the entire society." "What does all that mean?" Hamid now feels all the more hollow.

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"What I mean is, a writer is the antipodes of society itself. Why do you have to speak only of your room? Or only of your girlfriend?" Were it not for the sake of politeness, or of friendship, Hamid would have lost his patience and shouted: "I don't understand. Get out! I want to write tonight. Write about myself and my room, because that is all I really know!" But politeness and friendship would not permit this. And so he remains the good listener that he is. "Of course there are many writers whose work revolves around basically one thing. Indeed many important writers are like this. In Turgenev's work there is always an encounter between two characters. Then one character tells a story, and when it's over, they part. That's all. Steinbeck writes about forgotten wanderers. The same thing every time. With Chekhov, it's always misconceptions. But Indonesia needs something different. Try reading my stories. You might find something useful in them for your own purposes." In his heart, Hamid prays that his friend will leave immediately, leaving him to the embrace of the room he trusts. But, for the time being, it seems that Hamid won't get that opportunity. He simply hasn't the courage to kick his friend out. Finally: "How about going to the movies in Menteng?" Mardi lowers the lids of his eyes and softens his voice: "I don't have any money. But you can lend me some, if you want. What's playing?" Then they leave. For the past week Hamid has been counting his money in hopes that he'll be able to see the film which is now playing. Left and right he has heard that this film is an important play that has now been brought to the silver screen. The story fascinates him. He's impassioned at the sight of the same old scenes and actors. So real, so vivid. Still better, the integration and divorce of reality and subjectivity is not at all split up and stiff as in his own work. "Extraordinary!" cries Mardi as they are about to part at the fork in the road. "Extraordinary," Hamid whispers, mainly to himself. And then they separate.

At home he finds a letter from Gomanitsar—his girlfriend—awaiting him. He suddenly remembers that he had promised to take Nitsar to the movies in Menteng. The hollow feeling in his chest returns. He gazes at the photo which hangs on the wall, then throws himself onto the bed. "Enough! It's all over. I just want to sleep. I just want to rest." He is so tired. And his sleep is troubled. In the morning he feels too dizzy to go to work. Instead he sits quietly at his desk and reads the beginning of his play over and over again. He doesn't know why, but each time he reads it, his heart shivers. "If I continue like this," he says to himself, "and keep it up, no one will be able to reject it. It'll become a great play. And if no one recognizes how great it is, at least I will one day." Later that afternoon, he is getting ready to take a fifteen-minute walk to watch schoolchildren playing basketball on Banteng Square, when suddenly the friend who had called him "somewhat disturbed" comes into the room. Without any invitation,

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he sits down on the chair. Spying the page of writing, his curiosity is pricked and he begins to read with full attention. Finally: "You have begun a play, I see." He gazes at Hamid for a moment, his eyes conveying a look of respect. "What do you think of it?" Hamid asks, hope flaring up in his chest. "I don't think your approach will go over very well with today's public. The Minister of Education himself wouldn't understand what you're trying to do." "Why not?" Hamid asks, his hope still building. "It's too heavy!" he says, inhaling and exhaling quite deeply. "Heavy?" "You've been reading too much psychology. Especially works by Mead and Turner.4 Their theories on solipsism have had too great an influence on you, I'm afraid. This modern psychology is ruining you. It has too sharply divided your soul, so that you feel completely isolated, and end up simply spinning circles around yourself." Hamid shakes his head. This is all new to him. So he can't make head or tail of it. The hollow feeling in his chest returns. "Hey... why are you so pale?" "I'm sick. I was about to go see the doctor." "Let's walk together." "You go ahead. I want to be alone." Feeling offended, the friend leaves. Hamid lays his body on the bed. He doesn't know where to begin thinking. All this criticism from left and right whirls horribly in his head. Now he sees clearly how dependent he is on all the contradictory criticisms which overwhelm him with big names and big words he has never heard of. Again he remembers lenong, which entrusts itself only to spontaneity. But of course his play, once finished, can't possibly be performed by a lenong troupe. He thinks of Shakespeare. And this leads him to Kila, who once said to him: "If you want to write a play, take Shakespeare as your model. Right up till now, there's no beating him when it comes to portraying humanity." "Why should I make him my model?" he protests silently in his heart. "What if I don't want to portray humanity? If I'm going to portray anything, I'm going to portray the conditions of humanity, even though by 'humanity' I mean only myself ... and maybe Nitsar too. Anyway I've never read Shakespeare." His eyes drift over to the book-case. Not a single book on psychology to be found there. He hasn't even read the short synopses found in his magazines. If he has read anything, it has been very basic introductory books. But that was seven years ago, and he has forgotten everything in them. "Apparently," he thinks, "in order to become a playwright, you have to read and understand all the books in the world." Such thoughts make him feel like a dwarf one half of whom has developed while the other half remains naked in deformity, humiliation, misery and ignorance. He feels ill-fated as well as isolated and inadequate. He searches for a way to free himself from all these constraints. He calms his heart, and at last it comes to him: "I'd better go to five or six more people who know something about drama to draw some conclusions from all the criticism and suggestions I have received." He begins to consider whom he should visit. Finally he comes up with a list of people whose opinions on drama are respected: a playwright, an editor, a high-

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school literature teacher now in the process of putting together a textbook on literature, a stage actor who has become an actor in films and doubles as a screenplay writer, and an art editor for radio. He stands up. This day, this very instant, he will begin. The playwright isn't at home. And only after walking no less than five kilometers does he finally meet up with the literature teacher. "My friend, I've just begun putting together a literature textbook," he says. "My colleague and I, that is. But with drama, we simply cannot reach an agreement. My colleague wants to divide it up into prose and poetry. My opinion, however, is that drama is in a class of its own, the 'drama class,' separate from both prose and poetry." This catches Hamid's attention. He would have taken from his pocket the single page which contained the beginnings of his play, had the teacher not immediately continued with the following words: "Prose and poetry explain or translate. Drama is action, the working out of thoughts and feelings. Quite different, don't you agree? Ah, I regret having agreed to work with that idiot. But, it seems that you have an interest in drama. Very good— especially in an era in which drama is facing its extinction. But remember, my friend, if my book on literature is published, you must study it. Especially if you want to write a play. Don't you know? Most authors themselves don't understand literature. That's what's so discouraging." "These past few days I have been busy writing." "Very good! At the very least there is an effort to thwart the extinction of drama." Hamid's hope is restored. "But beware of other playwrights. Those who are on the dustheap will heap criticisms on your work as furiously as possessed hobby-horse dancers." "Why?" "Why!" The literature teacher laughs. "Doesn't everyone believe more in his own greatness than in someone else's potential? What this means is that you'll be invited to join them on the dustheap. And they'll abuse you if they discover that you know the slightest thing about Sartre and Camus. And you'll be regarded as one of those who sings about the collapse of the European soul." At this point, Hamid can no longer restrain himself. He takes out the start of his play and offers it to the teacher. "So this is your play?" he responds, staring down the side of his nose. He reads for a few moments, then returns the page to Hamid. "Ah, my friend. Why have me read just the beginning. Finish it first." Hamid is speechless. He goes home devastated. His feet are tired and his whole body is stiff and sore. That night he tries to continue with the play. But he finds he has no energy. He lays his body down on the bed, and another fitful sleep overtakes him. He has forgotten to douse his head with cold water and bad dreams interrupt his slumber. Finally, he gives up, rises and runs water over his head in the bathroom. Then he sleeps peacefully until morning. He doesn't go home directly after work, but eats at one of the nearby foodstalls and then continues to seek out the people on his list of prospective advisers. Eventually he meets the playwright. When he introduces himself as someone

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interested in drama, who wants to write his own plays, the playwright looks him over with a belittling gaze. Between a whisper and a thought, he opens his attack: "My friend, for the next twenty years there'll be no chance for the birth of an Indonesian drama of any value." "But what about your own plays?" Hamid asks. "Well, they are produced occasionally." "What is your opinion of them?" "Ah, who can critique his own work? I'm happy if anyone shows up to watch, especially if there is a bit of applause." "Isn't the applause some type of affirmation?" "Applause is just a convention, my friend. It doesn't mean anything really." When there is a pause in their conversation, Hamid takes out the opening of his play and places it respectfully before the playwright, while searching his face for signs of a reaction. "So, you've begun a play?" he asks with a belittling look. And reluctantly he begins to read slowly to the very end. Finally, words begin to spew forth: "I once read a translation of Dante's De Monarchia," he says slowly. Then he roars: "Truly beautiful... humankind is the middle ground between the eternal and the temporal. . . yes of course he has two faces, two souls, two courses of action. Very beautiful, my friend, very true indeed... but you don't need to base everything on Dante. You need to search within yourself. You can become great in your own way." Hamid leaves the playwright's house, his spirits in disarray. In life, he needs someone to love him, while he himself is incapable of loving; in his efforts to create, he needs someone's nurturing and faith... but nobody gives him either nurturing or faith, and he is incapable of providing either for himself. During the entire walk home he keeps asking himself where he has heard the name Dante, and when he read De Monarchia. He can't see how it could possibly be related to his play. No, he is quite sure that he hasn't heard of any playwright named Dante. Without him realizing it, his feet have brought him to Mardi's house. For a long time he can't answer the questions that are hurled at him. Instead, he rolls his weak and weary body down onto Mardi's mat, and tries to sleep. "You're awfully tired," Mardi accuses. "Do you want a cold drink?" Hamid shakes his head. And after he has calmed down, he sits up, rubbing his legs. "Who is Dante?" he finally asks. "You don't know who Dante is? The creator of the Italian language?" "What does he have to do with drama?" "Nothing whatsoever!" And now Hamid finds that he can't think at all. "Why do you ask about Dante?" Hamid doesn't answer. He takes out the tattered beginning of his play, and rereads his character Pardan-ITs line: "I don't know what use this diary is. Every day I fill it. And fill it! And yet I still don't know anything." He takes a pencil from his pocket. He scratches out the word 'know' and replaces it with 'understand.' "You are suffering, aren't you," Mardi begins again. ""What can I do to help? I can't stand seeing you so pale and desperate."

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"Please explain to me why anyone would think the beginning of my play is based on Dante's De Monarchia." "Who's the crazy fool who told you that? Oh, that idiotic playwright. I happen to know that he's just begun trying to read Dante. Why didn't he just go right to the true source? Why didn't he say that you were influenced by Aquinas ...that babbling fool!" Hearing 'Aquinas/ Hamid's spirits, which had begun to lift, are knocked down again, finding shelter in the innermost cavern of his heart. "Why must I hear so many names! Why must I endure so many accusations? Is it a crime to write a play without knowing all this?" Meanwhile, a friend arrives, and comes into Mardi's room. He looks at the beginning of the play, and becomes completely absorbed in reading it. Then: "It's too bad. This play could be good, but I'm not convinced an audience would accept characters who each play half of the same person. This is indeed man's struggle with himself. This is rebellion. But I don't think people are ready for it yet; at best it will merely become a drama not for performance. And as for the music ... Why must it thunder? Is it necessary to use an orchestra that..." Mardi and Hamid follow the lips of their friend which move so quickly and so full of certainty. "I once saw an Anouilh play performed in Paris. It was his 'Festival of Pickpockets.' And can you guess what the musical accompaniment was? Just a stick of wood. But it was perfect, actually." "I don't understand music," Hamid says, his eyes blinking apologetically. "Oh, you mean it was you who wrote this? I'm sorry. I had no idea you were the author," he says with embarrassment. "You aren't offended, are you?" Eventually an intense debate ensues between Mardi and his guest. Dozens of names and schools of thought roll out like thunder, none of which he recognizes. He knows only Utuy, Idrus, Sitor, Ibsen, and Strindberg. He doesn't know any of the others. Quietly he leaves Mardi's room carrying the page of his play with him. At home he rereads Utuy's Flower of the Restaurant. He is entranced. But nothing can satisfy his yearning. How could it? He needs to create, to give form to his own problems, and not merely accept the work of others. So he returns Flower of the Restaurant to the book-case, and he starts to read and re-read his own composition. "At least," he whispers to himself, "this bit of writing uses my own feelings and thoughts, my own opinions and views." He takes some glue and pastes the quarto page into his diary, along with the front and back pages that had served as the cover, so that the entire product of his creative efforts is enveloped in the pages of the diary. After that he sleeps. Deliciously. For just before dozing off, he whispers to himself: "Let me just do this play with my own body and soul alone..." 1

This is the trance-dance hobby-horse described above at VI, note 16. Lenong—the popular folk-theater peculiar to Batavia and its immediate surroundings, notable in this context for its use of improvisation, which contrasts with the playwright's belabored composing. 3 Utuy Tatang Sontani, Idrus, Usmar Ismail, and Sitor Situmorang—"stars" of the Indonesian literary scene during the 1950s. 4 Most likely George Herbert Mead and Ralph Turner, prominent American social psychologists in the 1950s. 2

VEI. HOUSE (DJAKARTA, 1955)

At the time I felt like a chat, but my housemates had all gone off to the cinema. So I went over to a neighbor's house. On a Friday night at that! I still remember the day, because people were thronging home from listening to the tafsir at the mosque next door.1 While we were enjoying a conversation about the hardships of a time of political, social, and economic transition, an Arab said: "Assalamu . . . " He held a black cloth umbrella in one hand and wore a tall pitji on his head.2 His short neck made it seem like he had never looked about him in his whole life. He was built tall, with a belly bulging forward, and his sarong was hitched up high. His eyes were deep and piercing as if they wanted to destroy everything they spotted. And his shoes were too old. "Ya, marchabal" my host exclaimed.3 "What have you got there?" "Banana fritters!" Slowly but surely, the shape of his powerful build began to form before our eyes. The chair in which he sat creaked under his weight as if it was about to break. And the conversation quite naturally shifted its course. Meanwhile, I became quite worried that our host and the Arab would end up chatting for five hours straight about something they loved but I hated—what's more, in Arabic. Then, someone rather short and stout—in a word dumpy—also came by, after descending from the mosque next door. "Ya marchaba, 'Amir!" our host called out once again. This time to Mr. Dumpy. And Amir, uttered with the flavor of an Arabic accent, also appeared on the verandah. His eyes flickered continuously, and every so often he would close them tightly like someone who had not slept in a year. Then the talking became more boisterous: on the Prophet's views about religion; on the Koran being in fact simply the good deeds of the Prophet himself; about bismillah which upon deep contemplation turns out to encapsulate all the philosophy that ever existed in the world4; about the Koran for which there was no comparison among all the books that ever existed on this earth; about astronomy, Ibn Sina, the bani Ummayah, and Palestine with its Jewish people who were persevering and hypocritical5; and lastly, about polygamy. When the conversation turned to polygamy, the Arab stopped talking. He would become dispirited as soon as people touched on the subject of marriage. And his eyeballs would protrude so far that they seemed about to pop out of their sockets. Without looking at anything, he seemed to be scrutinizing something close by that only he could see. It was common knowledge that the Arab was unhappy in his married life. At the age of fifty-one he remarried, this time his sixteen-year-old niece.

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In the first few months of marriage, his wife cried continuously, as she longed for her playmates. (While happily playing with her friends, she was summoned by her father, and then married off to the old man.) In subsequent years, this young wife shed many more tears because she had not been blessed with children. That's why Grandpa Arab did not dare step into his own household for very long. Everyone knew that When he popped his eyes, it was a signal for ending the topic of conversation he so hated. Otherwise, he would sit there with his eyes popping, unaware of his surroundings, and then wander off without any consideration for good manners. Finally the conversation turned to: "Just imagine! Everything's a mess, tuan 'Amir," said the Arab. "The tax is five hundred in a year. That's not even a profit of five cents in five years." "So what's happening with your court case?" our host asked. "The court!" the Arab cried in disgust. "The court! The court! What about the court! The case has been decided twice! Decided twice! It's only here that a case can be decided twice! The people occupying that house were supposed to leave. But who was supposed to evict them?!" "That's obvious—the police!" our host offered. "The police!" he shouted, followed by a harsh laugh that was abruptly extinguished. He became wistful, shaking his head as if all the sorrow he had ever experienced came suddenly to assail him. I too was surprised but remained silent. Ustad 'Amir chuckled happily.6 Then he offered the following: "Muchammadd! The one in the right will always win. So too it is said in our religion. Take my wife in Krukut—the tall and slender one with pink cheeks and even teeth! You know what, tuan? Huh! A while back her house was occupied by some Chinamen. And yes, we went to court and won. The Chinamen were thrown out and . . . paid damages!" He chuckled again. "You know why? Patience. The outcome is in God's hands. We Muslims are people who know how to be patient. Don't you think so?! The truth will always win." Then verses from the Koran came flowing out, or it could have been a joke in Arabic. I didn't know. That's the disadvantage of not knowing foreign languages. Finally: "Muchammadd, what do you think of my tafsir just now? And how about my argument against the people who say our religion isn't really ours.7 Oh, how could it be inauthentic? Surely, if it weren't authentic, it would have been swept away long ago, like justice, like the fate of that house of yours! You must believe in justice." "How can I believe! Justice that is no longer authentic! Just imagine, ustad, I brought a case to court in '51 and had to spend fifteen thousand on it. The case was settled, and I won. But even then, the occupants of my house couldn't be evicted. In '53, another ten thousand. Just imagine, ustad, I went to the court every day. You know me. I'm not afraid of a fight " Then his voice, like the rapid fire of a machine gun, sought attention and sympathy from us all. In '46, his house—you could describe it as a smallish palace— was occupied by a Dutch captain who never paid the rent. Every time he came to press for payment, the lessee simply replied: "Want me to pay with this?" as he displayed his fist. For months this continued until on one occasion he came again and was treated in the predictable fashion. But this time he lost his patience. He

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grabbed the threatening fist and yanked it back. Then he challenged the Dutch captain to fight it out. Apparently, his powerful physique, rippling with strong muscles, gave him an edge. One punch and the Dutchman was sent spinning and then rolling into a gutter. A gutter that usually was not cleaned for weeks at a time! However, at that moment there was no room for compassion. He leapt into the gutter and trampled on his victim's body until his white skin was so darkened it no longer seemed filthy. The Dutchman's wife screamed for the police. By the time the police arrived, Mr. Captain was unconscious. In the ensuing police interrogation, he was the victor. And three months later the Dutch captain left the hospital, paid the rent in full, and then hurriedly vacated the house. The palace was quickly renovated. Before the renovations had been completed, that is, some time after '50, someone or other and his family occupied the house without permission. A Chinese family. The Arab sighed with relief. "Huh! if it were only a question of a fight," he said as he viewed his arm, large and firm as a club made of toddy-palm wood, "I wouldn't back off from anybody, ustad." He looked at me and continued: "No backing off, tuan—could be Dutch, could be Chinamen! But not Indonesians. Indonesians have the same religion, the same Prophet—right? That's the problem." He laughed contentedly. Now ustad 'Amir interjected: "My wife in Djatinegara—tuan, you know her, don't you? The tall, slender one, with a mole on the left side of her chin, who loves to help with the cooking where there are feasts—oh, a real woman she is! And what does she say? Kafir don't have power, she says. Let them live well in this world, but in the hereafter we alone will be victorious."8 "Ah, how true," the Arab agreed. "What happened to the Chinaman?" our host asked with a somewhat mocking laugh. "That was a simple matter. I challenged him once and he ran away at the crack of dawn." "Who else invaded the house?" ustad 'Amir inquired as he scrutinized the thick Arab kupiah which was covered with grime along the lower edge.9 "An Indonesian! Hmph, I had to spend fifty thousand to get rid of him." "Fifty thousand!" shouted ustad 'Amir, his eyes bulging and nearly fainting at the words. His red eyes glittered stilly, as though covered with a layer of dust. "Fifty thousand," sighed the Arab. "He left, but his Indonesian friend took his place! Masjaallahl A real bastard!" Everyone laughed. But the Arab apparently did not find anything funny in the story. In the end, he forced a laugh in deference to our host, ustad 'Amir, and to me, of course. However, eventually he too felt happy because others could get some fun out of his story. He continued: "But Indonesians are hard to fight, tuan. You know what? I always keep a knife under this shirt of mine. No one can make me afraid. But Indonesians, tuan, masjaallahl We share the same religion, but the trouble is... Hmm, once upon a time in Arabia, tuan, there was an old man who had many children, all of them male..." Then he proceeded to tell the story titled "United we stand, divided we fall," only it was set in Arabia. His rambling tale, spiced up here and there, finally ended with the following:

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"Hmm, in the old days there were many wise people in Arabia. Arabs were truly clever in the past. Look how we are today, ustad, if Arabs and Indonesians can be broken one by one like the ribs of a palm-leaf broom, Islam will be finished here. Don't you think so?" "But, tuan, you can still take the case to court!" our host submitted. "I've had enough, tuan, I'm worn out. The court delivers a decision, hum; the decision is written down on paper, tuan; and the paper has no power!" He laughed mockingly at himself. "The first case unfolded this way, tuan. The police arrived to carry out the eviction, everything inside the house was carried out to the yard—by the roadside. The house was empty. The police left. At that very moment, everything was moved back into the house. What could one say to that, tuan? The police had done their duty. Of course, I got angry at them. But quite unexpectedly a gang of betjak drivers intervened and attacked me. Naturally, tuan, I ran for my life!" Once more everyone present laughed. Even he himself. The serious expression on his face lost its seriousness, and he smiled sardonically. "Of course, the house can be forcibly vacated once again, tuan, but I would have to go back to court. A few thousands more would have to be spent. And the squatters in the house will repeat their tactic all over again. Tuan, I'm really old now—I've got old from worrying about that one house!" "Whatever the case," ustad 'Amir interposed again, "you will win someday. In the name of God. Tuan Muchammadd, you do still pray don't you? Our Prophet himself is the best example. He started out with nothing but ended up with a kingdom. Isn't that true? My wife at Klinci lane, tuan Muchammadd, you remember her don't you? The petite, cute one with sweet brown skin like a theater puppet.10 She once told me that everyone gets their fair share as long as they know the limits of their rights and responsibilities. Know when you're obligated, know when you're exempt. Right? So..." "Eh, ustad, how many wives do you have, huh?" "Four households, tuan Muchammadd! Just imagine! Not cheap at all! But God continues to grant me a livelihood. Do you know why, tuan Muchammadd? Because I walk in the path of the Prophet/' he beamed after making this proclamation of his state of being. Seeing nothing of consequence in this proclamation, the Arab imposed his complaints on the group: "These are strange times, tuan. We can't get anything we want. No matter how many bush-lawyers there are, cases never get decided, they drag on and on forever. Even when a case is decided, the decision isn't carried out. Ya, Allah! If you want things to work out, you must dare to spend still more money, dare to be attacked by a mob." His voice became more and more melancholy, and he became visibly older. He cleared his throat. All of a sudden his eyes lit up as he looked at ustad 'Amir and asked: "Ustad, you have four wives, right?" "Yes!" "Well, you must feel sleepy every day." Everyone laughed except ustad 'Amir. Dauntlessly he righted himself in his seat, his eyes blinking like a beacon. Then he said in an authoritative voice: "Whosoever walks in the path of the Prophet will be safe."

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The Arab nodded his head mockingly and looked at me, so I felt as if I was obliged to follow his lead by nodding my head as well. And I noticed that our host had preceded me. Like a bunch of turtledoves. All the while, ustad "Amir pronounced various verses of the Koran, not a single one of which I understood. Yet it gave me untold pleasure to listen to his enunciation. The more I reveled in the sounds, the more I absorbed, and the more I grew envious of his ability to use a language so foreign to me. Suddenly our host invited us to drink coffee. And the Arab drank too. When he raised his head from his cup, he followed up the coffee with banana fritters which in the meantime had got cold. His eyes sparkled at the sight of the remaining banana fritters lined up side by side on the plate. Then he started to cough. He drank another mouthful and gave thanks to God and to the Prophet. All of a sudden, the atmosphere changed rapidly. Our host, ustad 'Amir, and Muchammadd talked boisterously, gesticulating with their hands—waving, reaching out, pointing—while they kept shaking their heads back and forth. All in Arabic. Without moving his head from his neck, ustad 'Amir glanced left and right with those forever sleepy eyes of his. He was really fluent in that foreign tongue and was visibly happy when he got the opportunity to use it. And I myself was all alone, like a strip of coral in the middle of the sea, present only to witness the storm. They laughed. They grimaced. Shaking their heads back and forth. Every now and then one heard "astagaftrullah" as well as "minzalik."11 At one point our host grimaced like a monkey in pain. I couldn't stop wondering what in the world made him grimace like that. So I too began to feel edgy: To avoid that disagreeable feeling I looked at the face of the Arab very closely. I sensed that a power of some kind had at one point broken this Arab's will to live. I could feel that his laughter was forced. Those coal-black eyes of his, small, deep, and calm, demanded still more sympathy—eyes that pleaded their cause to every human being willing to open his heart to them. I could also feel that he had poured forth liters of tears every day, even if only in his tortured mind. It felt as though that house had all along been the only symbol of greatness in his life; a house built cent by cent from riba which he collected on foot, step by step, enduring thirst and hunger, weariness and frustration—decade after decade.12 When the talking and joking in Arabic ended, the Arab looked at me as if startled by his own realization that I did not know the language of the Prophet. Quickly he switched to talking in Indonesian. He continued: "Don't you think so?" he asked, this time turning to me. "When we have no possessions we suffer. And we suffer too when we have them, all the more so." Everyone laughed, including me. All of a sudden thunder roared in the blackened heavens. Everyone glanced at the sky soaring above the edge of the verandah. Not a single twinkling star. The Arab rose, hung his umbrella on his arm, and shook hands with each one of us in turn. His hand felt hot. And so he left, with stumbling steps. Ustad 'Amir also left after gulping down his coffee. The thunder rumbled on. And it felt as if only my host and I were left in this world, along with the lamp, the empty plate, and the empty glasses. "You weren't bored listening to his story, were you?" "Amazing!" I exclaimed in awe.

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"What was amazing?" "His way of speaking! The way he mesmerized his listeners." "Just who was mesmerized by his speaking?" "No one?" I asked. "Absolutely no one," he replied. "Well, in that case, only I was mesmerized. But why weren't you all too?" The host smiled in surprise. He looked at me long and hard as if he did not believe what I had said. Finally, he spoke very slowly: "I thought you were bored listening to him. The thing is, in the old days he was a moneylender. Today he owns sixty-seven stone houses here in Djakarta. On average they rent for two hundred a month. Add it up for yourself. I was afraid that you were bored listening to him. You see, in the last five to six years that's been all he can talk about to whomever he meets." "Amazing," I said once again. And the rain too came down, as if unleashed, it seemed. 1

Tafsir—Koranic exegesis. Assalamu... —vernacularized opening of the standard Arabic-Muslim greeting. P#/*—rimless velvet cap, formal wear for Muslim Indonesian males. 3 Marchaba (Arabic)—welcome. 4 Bismillah—In the Name of Allah; the invocation that precedes each chapter of the Koran. 5 Ibn Sina—the great Arabian physician, theologian, and philosopher known in the Christian West as Avicenna (980-1037). The bani Ummayah—descendants of Umar, seventh-century founder of the first Caliphate; in other words, the Ummayad dynasty (661-750). 6 Usted—Islamic teacher. 7 This refers to a nativist Javanese tradition opposed to "orthodox" Islam as a foreign (Arab) religion. 8 Kafir (Arabic)—infidels. 9 Kupiah—rimless cap worn by Muslim males; virtually a synonym for pitji. 10 The original term is gotek, wooden rod-puppets used mainly in Sundanese puppet-theater. 11 Astagafirullah—May Allah forgive His servant! An exclamation of shock or dismay. Minzalik—short form of a'udzu billahi minzalik, vernacularized version of an Arabic expression of surprise or alarm (may Allah preserve us!) 12 Riba—usury, a practice forbidden by Islam. 2

IX. CREATURES BEHIND HOUSES (DJAKARTA, DECEMBER 1955)

Through the screen of my house's porch a well is visible. No more than five meters from my porch. Surprising that the well is in front of my house, and only five meters away. Actually it's not in front of my house by design. The thing is that my house is located at the back of a line of row-houses. (My house is also a row-house!) It's from behind this screen that I observe the existence of a strange form of life—the life of creatures behind houses. And these creatures are the maids. If maids in Chinese families eventually come to have clean faces and their features come to resemble those of Chinese, and if maids in European families grow to be careful and polite, it's rather different with the maids of Djakarta's prijaji.1 It's true that several months after they are imported from upcountry they too become clean and look like true city folk. But not long after that they become filthy once more. Not because these maids are necessarily slovenly, but because their masters have stopped spoiling them, and every conceivable task falls on their heads: cooking (this is certain), washing clothes (from the master's underwear to diapers and shirts), putting the house in order, washing dishes, bathing and cleaning the behinds of the little masters—who can't be treated roughly—and before they realize that they haven't had their own afternoon baths, it's night. Another day brings yet another opportunity to become filthy. And if there is a moment free for washing their own underwear, a second later they're dangling from the clothesline, square in front of my house: filthy panties with yellowing hems. Sometimes they appear quite rotten, as if they might prove fertile if one planted them with four or so peanuts, or corn or perhaps soybeans. Not only because of their ammonia content, but also because the cloth itself seems as if it's become compost! If you're reading this, you may suspect that I am launching a polemic. But such is not my intent. These are facts that are spread out clearly in front of my house, in my neighborhood, and perhaps in your own neighborhood, although they cannot be considered truths that stand alone. Just look at that Miss Two! You yourself don't know her yet. You might also feel disgusted to meet her. But she has become a part of my world. These days no one can really remember her true name. It's not hard to discover why. She can't count to more than seven. The only number she really knows well is two. That's why her name changed to Miss Two. She's now thirteen years old. She began her life behind the house in front of mine at age six. During the whole year I lived in this house, she wore the same dress—her mistress's discarded Pekalongan kain.2 The blessing of working at least twelve hours a day is this: to this day the number thirteen is an

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insoluble puzzle to her. Thirteen take away five is a hell complete with torturers and eternal fire. Before I moved away from this house, I had the opportunity to witness how for three nights in a row she cried at the well. Soft and stifled sobs in a child's still-pure voice. I thought at first that she had been scolded by her mistress, but it turned out she was crying because she missed her parents. The only thing she could do was cry, because she knew she couldn't leave her duties. She works for nothing. She receives no salary. She usually gets just one meal a day. But at night, too, she sometimes gets some food, if there are scraps left over from the master's dinner. That's Miss Two. I've never said that all prijaji maids suffer a similar fate. At least in the case of the row-house over there, the maid, who was still a little girl, was sent to school every afternoon. She received no pay either, just twenty-five cents a day transportation: money. But this little maid gradually became a full-figured virgin, and far too fond of reading. Without her realizing it, she was eventually seen as a prospective competitor by the lady of the house. And before this full-figured virgin could graduate from elementary school, she was kicked out. Of course each person has his own reasons for protecting the integrity of his own environment—that is, his circumstances—even though these circumstances may not be pleasant, may not be of real benefit to him. Accordingly I have no right to make accusations. But fundamentally I am an accuser. That's why, in situations like this, I'll accuse. But perhaps the master's reasons were right after all: one's level of schooling won't constitute any kind of social guarantee later on. Perhaps it's fitting, too, that I tell you that my house belongs to a row-house with twenty-three doors—twenty-three families! One could say that each residence has its own maid. And these prijaji from the sticks have often served as maids or houseboys before coming to the city. In these row-houses! To serve! In line with the teachings of the prijaji of antiquity: The lowly shall be exalted in the end. These backwoods prijaji coming to Djakarta have also served in their time. Their service has indeed brought them to a higher level: they have become city prijaji. But sometimes they forget their former servitude. As a result, in my area, one can often hear this hysterical screech: "Next time, I'll take the iron to your belly!" And screeches like these are caused by the maid's losing ten cents shopping money or not ironing clothes quickly enough, even though she knows Master has to leave immediately; or by Master's bicycle still being muddy (our row-house is not officially planned, and its streets are unpaved—only occasionally, when the mud is deep, they're sprinkled with sawdust); or when the little master hasn't yet had his behind wiped, and other small mistakes. To tell the truth, I couldn't help laughing to myself when I heard those hysterical shrieks. But after I realized how loudly these shrieks were uttered, and with such a serious expression, I became convinced that prijaji maids have been relegated to a special morality: the morality of the prijaji maid. Perhaps no one really understands what a prijaji maid's morality really is. And I guess I don't myself. Its image is dark and indistinct, like the outline of a chicken at dusk, when clouds bestride the earth. Shrieks like these almost always end by crowding the maid into a kitchen corner. And always her answer is the same. "I bought an ice, Ma'am." "Bought an ice! If you used your own ancestors' money..." Then there's the maid over there—the maid whose master just married a virgin from his home town. And it was this virgin who brought the maid with her. Mrs. Newlywed sat every morning under a cherry tree and stayed there until her husband

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returned from the office, giving a masterly impression to all who passed in front of her that she had not been accustomed to working in her home town: a true prijaji. Not accustomed to working! In this age when work is sought from and by everyone! Prijaji morality again! Of course it's not my intention to stereotype. But I know only too well the life-style of the prijaji class before the war. And these days the Djakarta prijaji want to perpetuate this out-of-date morality. With more colors and rhythms, of course, in accordance with modernity. And what prijaji is not out of date? Capable farmers have gained control of their harvests and increased their wealth. Merchants have buttressed their status and become the kings of every city. Workers have organized themselves. Only the prijaji have stagnated. With their ideal of idleness which refuses to rot away under pelting rain and scorching sun. And everyone knows the consequence: maids and houseboys are dealt a stroke of luck.3 Actually, I've chattered on too long about matters not directly related to these creatures behind houses. In our group, a group of row-house dwellers, there is a particular circumstance too tempting not to relate. Not that I want to expose other people's secrets! Between human beings, even between you and me, and around us, there are actually no secrets at all. So it's like this, in our group, our group of row-house dwellers, there is a certain maid. Brought in from the sticks, of course. There are many members in this master's family. According to the dukun's advice, in order to have health and wellbeing in this world and the next, and in order that wealth might flow to the family for generations to come, several conditions had to be fulfilled. One of these conditions (in addition to those that profited the dukun in an indirect way) was: if the mistress cooked, she shouldn't cook more than two liters of rice. And since there were so many members in the family, the maid had to cook three times a day. I know the maid didn't understand her mistress's situation at- all. This was the conclusion that I reached myself when I saw the mistress sneak out and bury a protective charm in front of her house, and hide others above the front, back, and kitchen doors. After that, if one night a neighbor of mine had an attack of stomach flu and had to run to the common toilet, he would see a well, our well, still brightly lit by a lamp on the wall; the maid, deeply stooped, washing a seemingly endless pile of clothes. Until eleven o'clock, twelve, one, two, sometimes even three. Only then did the world of our neighborhood grow silent. Later, at five in the morning, that is, two hours later, these creatures behind houses began to emerge to go back to the well: to bathe, wash dishes or clothes, until nine o'clock.

What is the significance of the Revolution for these maids, the Revolution that has claimed thousands of victims from their families? From time to time this question flits through my head. And I can't answer it. Not because I am, as you know, no statesman or politician, but above all because this is a very complex matter, and besides, to a statesman, a matter of overwhelming insignificance. A friend once advised me: let's convert to Buddhism. That way we'll have a chance to live three or four lives. And in living these three or four lives we will certainly be able to observe what the scores of people who have been appointed minister of education, instruction, and culture are really worth.4

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Of course his suggestion was a very cynical and futile joke, but if we look at the indications, there is also some truth to it. Once again I've strayed into religious and ministerial matters, while my intention was to tell about the creatures behind houses. Well, then, let me continue: The maid I was telling about earlier eventually lost her appetite for food. When she was hungry, the rice wasn't yet cooked, or the rice was all gone, or work was still piling up, or one of her masters was pushing her to work faster. Hence her appetite vanished into the green sky. So it went on. And when at night an opportunity to eat presented itself, her body was so weary that her stomach, along with her large and small intestines, lost their proper power to contract. So she went to sleep before eating. Consequently, she went to work again before eating. Eventually, although she was not yet dead, a rift opened between her body and her soul. This may sound very strange. Nevertheless there is some truth to the matter, even if only a little. It's like this: her soul wandered about while her body washed, walked, ate, or slept. Without fail every week she was struck by disaster: slipped at the well, got a nail imbedded in her foot, had her arm burned by the iron, or was upended colliding with a bench; indeed once, while she was resting in a battered rattan chair, a bicycle fell on her, the chair knocked over a row of plates, and after that a 'stroke of luck' from her mistress fell on her head.5 Inevitably these calamities reminded me of my teacher's lesson when I was still in primary school: body and mind must be united! Thoughts must be directed. If not, the spirit, led away by those stray thoughts, will wander, and then hole up somewhere. And this spirit will draw your body; and a collision will occur. That's calamity. To be sure, that's just another theory about calamity. Over time the maid's body became truly obese. I thought it was beri-beri, but because I've never been educated to become a doctor, it's not proper for me to embark on such speculation. One day she fell for no reason, that is, after washing for four hours at the well. Then she blinked. Just blinked. This happened as twilight was about to fall. Only later, when night had come, did she whimper. And in the morning she was sent back to the sticks. At least our stifling scenery was diminished by one object. It is not my intention to stress that a maid's life is always oppressive to the heart. A few among them are truly happy with their fate. With a laugh and a smile always ornamenting their lips, they earnestly defend their employers from people's talk. For this defense they certainly receive no bonus. Nor a raise in wages. One of them has served for eight years. She got a raise only once: three ringgit. Meanwhile the eightyear period glided along without incident: she had become an old maid. The longer she stayed the older she got. Without the love and affection of a young-man-of-herdreams. Not only did dreams not become reality, they were extinguished entirely. Talking about dreams possibly coming true reminds me of a maid in our neighborhood who has now changed jobs and is working in a factory. She was a virgin from the sticks. She had clear skin, of a color that often aroused the envy of her mistresses. She had a beautiful silk dress that went very well with the color of her skin. At every occasion she considered important, she wore that dress. From her movements it was apparent that she had dreams of possibilities. Each time she wore her beautiful dress she would carry with her some kind of film or other entertainment magazine. I don't know whether she bought or borrowed these magazines. What is clear is that from a distance she gave the impression of an

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educated person. But if she were to approach us, and we could see her mouth hanging open, our impression of her education would disappear completely, and would gradually be replaced by our earlier impression of her as a maid. Of course this is not an insult. Just a meeting between dream and reality in one face and in one manner. And precisely because of that dream of hers she one day left her maid's status behind and became a factory worker. Several months later, on a pleasant morning, I saw her walking with a young man who owned a new Raleigh bicycle, with gears, a lamp, and a nickel-plated rack. And Miss Two? When her mistress bombarded her head with a steady barrage of curses, and the little masters kicked and pinched her, she sobbed in a corner of the house, facing the wall. For three hours! When night came she was no longer there. She had run away. Strayed! A child who had never left these row-houses, let alone ventured a distance as great as two kilometers. For during all that time she had only lived at the well, behind the house. For a day or two the mistress still felt irritated with Miss Two. Nonetheless, after a while she began to worry and went looking for her. Several days later a neighbor found her sitting in meditation on the edge of a bridge, and offered to take her home. Her only answer: Let a train run me over! And this terrifying news put her mistress in a panic for a second time, and she brought the child home. With a promise of course. Tomorrow she would be returned to her parents. Back to the sticks! Very early on the morning of the next day, Miss Two could be seen no more—perhaps forever. Concerning these creatures behind houses, there is so much that can be told, but almost always it's in a minor key. And precisely because that well cannot be removed from in front of my house, every day my eyes fall on their faces—every day, when I'm working, when I'm daydreaming, when I'm receiving guests. In short: every time I sit out in front. In the end it came to me, that the morality of the prijaji maid really is part of Eastern decency, Eastern propriety, as is often proclaimed in the propaganda of artists and politicians. What's too often forgotten, however, is that Eastern decency and Eastern propriety are but a trifle blown up out of proportion. And that trifle is the propriety and decency of the prijaji. 1

Prijaji (Javanese)—originally aristocrats of non-royal lineage; subsequently, in the colonial period, upper- and middle-level civil servants with aristocratic pretensions. 2 The north-coast Java port of Pekalongan has long been known for its sometimes flashy, brightly colored batik. 3 The phrase used is ketiban pulung (italics in the original). A sarcastic joke. Pulung in Javanese is the mysterious radiance that descends on (ketiban) a man destined to become king. 4 In post-independence Indonesia these functions were always combined within a single ministry—Kementerian Pendidikan, Pengadjaran dan Kebudajaan. 5 This time the expression explained in note 3 above is given in the italicized original as kedjatuhan pulung.

X. No RESOLUTION (DJAKARTA, FEBRUARY 1956)

I did not know her well. To be sure, her appearance was enticing—a young virgin, her body tall and slender, with fair skin that was almost white, an aquiline nose, small full lips, and a graceful easy sway to her hips as she walked. Seeing her for the first time, my eyes were immediately drawn to her. There was no mistaking it: it was as if she had been placed on this earth to arouse men's desire, her full lips as if created especially for drawn-out kisses. Her coquettish manner shocked the foundations of moral reason— And I did not know her name. People say: where there's a will there's a way. And so it happened that one day I picked up a bit of news about her. Name: Nana. Occupation? Of course her occupation must also be mentioned. Didn't she leave early in the morning on a bicycle with inflatable tires, only to return home in the afternoon some three or four days later, then leave again early the next morning? Nah, she worked as a hostess at the Concordia! The entertainment center for Japanese military officers.1 Her name and occupation only got me started in the hunt for more information. I used every opportunity to understand this creature who had been graced with such a propensity to arouse desire. Antipathy toward her occupation was no obstacle. Because: there was only one like her on God's earth, and God had created only one like her. The information that followed was predictable: almost every day Nana was dragged off by Japanese officers to an underground room of the Concordia. These days most people don't know the name Concordia—the building that is now the place where members of Parliament gather and hold sessions. Often, on my way to the Balai Pustaka to buy books,2 I would hear gleeful laughter coming from that cellar in whose windows iron gratings had been placed here and there; sometimes too, screams of fear or the flailing lash of a raw rattan cane. That laughter, those screams, came from the full passionate lips of young virgins like Nana. And Nana herself was there. People said: There's no need to take the cane to Nana. Just look at how her curves stay so full and voluptuous. Just look, there isn't so much as a square millimeter scratch on her skin! Still others said: Nana, well of course she doesn't have to be scared. Yes, she had willingly readied herself for the world of pleasure. At that time, she was seventeen years old. Three years younger than I. For seventeen years she had been preparing to find a proper outlet for her coquetry. Seventeen years is a very long time to wait for those unbelievably brief moments of happiness.

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Who knows how often I desired that body that had been put into the service of the Dai Nippon military. But because each person lives with his or her own strategy for tempting fate, which is insatiable, my love for her never came to anything. But during those hours of emptiness, her grip over my imagination grew stronger and less controllable. As for the gossip about her, I stored it quietly away in my heart. One day some news blew through that really stung me: Nana was now full grown, plump, and more voluptuous than ever, and she was kept by a Japanese officer somewhere in Menteng. The Japanese Occupation, the time of hunger, was no time for slanderous gossip—almost always true; for people who are starving, life is too serious for that. In my childish state, with a soul open to all desires, I could not so easily get rid of the objects of such desires. To be sure, those desires, which I felt were insane and superfluous, still held their power to incite my resolve and my body. That is how, almost every afternoon, I found myself roaming around Menteng with a half-starved stomach and a weakened body, trying to catch a glimpse of the face for which I had yearned all this time. With my still-youthful spirit, I could forgive all the imputed sins that were heaped upon her head. None of her faults figured into my calculations, while all of her movements, which were perhaps also directed towards me, felt like signs from a sublime world, a world of fantasy, and constituted blessings of the highest order. And one afternoon I got her address. She was sitting drinking a glass of chocolate milk on the verandah of a beautiful gray building. When she saw me, she nodded. And her hairbun nodded too. To my astonishment, she rose from where she was sitting and invited me in to visit. I saw on her neck a gold chain with a medallion-like cluster of glittering diamonds and other gems. Her ears were adorned with a pair of oval-shaped settings with more stunning gem-clusters at the center. Whether the diamonds and gems were real or imitation hadn't the slightest importance for me at that time. Her ears were for me far more important than the settings; and her neck more important than the necklace with its jeweled clusters. At that moment all my fears concerning anything Japanese on this earth disappeared. I calmly climbed the stairs and followed her inside. The furniture of the house was of the heavy type and was arranged haphazardly. Everywhere there were large mirrors, and, overpowering a major portion of the living-room, was a large divan, caked with dirt, and a table with leaves made of crystal. Every table contained ashtrays filled with cigarette-butts and ash and even the cotton of used earpicks. Doors to rooms were randomly ajar, and from the living room I could see various kinds of clothing hanging here and there along with a tattered mosquito-net and sheets, still in disorder. Contrary to my expectations, she was very friendly, quite unlike when we still lived in the same alley. The bitterness in her face was gone without a trace. The rouge and lipstick that reddened her cheeks and lips made her look cheerful. She sat with her legs crossed so that her sandals, with the strap crushed under the heel, hung limply down. After preparing a drink for me, she began to acquaint me with the objects over which she had so quickly come to reign: a tallboy packed with clothing (among millions of people who didn't have enough to wear, in fact sometimes had to clothe themselves with gunny sacks and palm-thatch) and some items of gold.

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"And look at this, a big radio. Too bad there's no broadcast now," she said, dusting the base of the radio. After that she glanced around. Suddenly: "ITie glasses are crystal. Tuan Ozima says they're made in Osaka." "You like it here, then?" I asked. And it was precisely at that moment that I realized that in fact we hadn't introduced ourselves. "We don't need to introduce ourselves, do we? We've known each other long enough. We know each other's names, after all. Do I like it here? Yes, I like it, but n

She directed her glance at an open door and gestured toward a room in the back. For a moment I could see some maids laughing hysterically. And I understood. "You want something to eat?" her eyes flashed. When I nodded in embarrassment, it seemed to lift her spirits. "You don't need to be afraid here. At least not now. He's gone. Went to Surabaja." That night she gave me a sack of rice, a container of oil, and a goldfish that still wasn't ready to die. I carried this godsend past the starving homeless who walked one step at a time along the streets: Djakarta under Japanese occupation.

After that I often roamed around Menteng. Not only to gaze upon her face—and who knows, secure a hope greater than anything I had ever hoped for thus far—but also because this era of hunger filled my heart with irrational bravery. But for all the times I approached the front of her house, I never again found her sitting alone on the verandah. Once or twice I saw her just crossing the verandah in a red kimono with white, purple, and yellow flowers, stepping on the heelstraps of her sandals. Seen from a distance, and for just a fleeting moment, she appeared even more beautiful and seductive. Each and every time, I saw Japanese officers sitting on the verandah with yellow boots propped on the arms of the divan. And not always the same officers either, but new ones, turn and turn about. Sometimes I saw Nana sitting on the lap of one of them, pinching the cheek or caressing the moustache of an officer from the Empire of the Rising Sun. Meaning: that the distance between us widened with each passing day and that, with every second that passed, my hopes grew fainter and more nebulous. But I forgave her for everything she did. Indeed, I felt I could still accept her in my heart, if she ever parted from those officers of hers. Suddenly, completely unexpectedly, the Revolution broke out.

I too joined the army. Memories and experiences during the Japanese Occupation were immediately Snuffed out, shoved aside by new preoccupations which brought happiness to poor youths, youths who were in love, starving youths, sick youths, and cowardly ones, too. The Revolution had made young bodies the focus of all activity. Now people thought only about the British army and NICA.3 People felt more passion for their weapons than anything else imaginable. People also felt more passion for their soldier-green uniforms than all the clothing

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imaginable. People were completely swept away by everything that smelled of the military. And I was no different from those youths. One day, after returning from the front lines with my unit, I went back to my room in a building belonging to the Railway Department in Tjikampek, our military base. The base was a small town that was cursed every season with a lack of water. It had sprung up there because it was an intersection for the main railroad lines. That was why only the officials of the Railway Department could obtain any decent goods there. In addition, running water only flowed into those buildings located above the train station. And the residents of these buildings were not always willing to lend out their bathrooms to the soldiers who stayed on their verandahs. Soldiers who stayed on their verandahs? Naturally, since there had never been barracks there, either for the police or for the military, and in the time of the Revolution this town had to accommodate no less than ten thousand soldiers. In every house there were soldiers doubling up. That's not counting the refugees and the rice black-marketeers from Djakarta. So there was even less water. Every well became a center of activity every morning, from dawn until the middle of the night. The screech of the pulleys never ceased. One afternoon, when I had an opportunity to bathe, I saw, to my astonishment, a slender woman carrying a turban-shaped pail filled with laundry, waiting her turn. And this woman was none other than Nana. "You—here?" I immediately inquired. It seemed that she was surprised to see me. Then I saw her grow nervous—she was frightened. But in the end she nodded her head and attempted a sweet smile. Still she didn't reply. "Been here long?" I asked further, trying to be friendly. She scratched the dirt with her bare feet, then placed the pail on the ground, stole a momentary glance at me, and spoke in a near whisper: "Just a week." I had been in Tjikampek for more than two weeks. All the news, no matter how trivial, quickly blew from mouth to mouth. But about her I had heard nothing. And besides, you never met anyone like her in a place like this. It's not possible. Not possible! I thought. But I went on to ask: "You looking for rice?" "I'm a refugee," she answered, in a voice barely more audible than before. "Refugee?" It seemed she didn't like being questioned. So I took my towel and all my other dirty clothes and trudged back to the verandah of a house belonging to the Railway Department which served as lodgings for me as well as seven other soldiers. I met her again when she passed my verandah on her way home. "Going home?" I asked. She nodded, then bowed her head. "Won't you stop in?" She lifted her chin, smiled faintly, then shook her head. "Where do you live?" I asked. She gestured with her long, thick eyelashes and with her lips in the direction of a house behind the house next to where I was staying. Then she bowed her head again. Close by, I thought to myself. Then, automatically, it passed through my mind that I should pay her a visit. She had, after all, once given me a stock of provisions during a time of hunger. A visit was only proper.

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That afternoon, I went to headquarters to take care of some work. Hot news was blowing right and left: a robber had been captured with his loot while fleeing from Djakarta into the interior. He had been badly beaten and was now locked up at the military police headquarters. "What was stolen?" I asked. "A norm," someone answered. And I wasn't surprised. The kidnapping of sweet norm happened all the time in Lemah Abang, Tjibarusa, Wadas, Teluk Djamb£, and places like that. There was only one reaction to that kind of thing: it was disgusting! The disgust of a society fighting for independence, facing an enemy army that was more powerful. As usual, news like this caused someone to ask: "She's the sweet nona, isn't she?" How shocked I was then to learn that this nona was none other than Nana. One of the military police who had been present at regimental headquarters explained, gesturing wildly, that the robber had come to Tjikampek on the slow train. There was no report whatsoever from Djakarta. He was headed, not for Tjikampek, but for Purwakarta. But upon arriving in Tjikampek the nona had stepped off the train and reported to the commandant guarding the station that she had been kidnapped by someone who now sat waiting for her in the railroad car. The robber was immediately arrested and beaten up. He was given no chance to defend himself. As he was being beaten and kicked, he calmly stared at Nana. "He should be beaten to death!" people screamed. "People sacrifice their bodies and souls for the struggle—he amuses himself kidnapping women!" The military policeman let fly with his hands and fists. He alternated his beating with hacking and kicking. His face shone with the ecstasy and the blood of a patriot busy kicking a counter-revolutionary. His nose-hairs quivered as if they were also torturing the robber with their sharp points. When the regimental commander came by, the policeman fell silent, then was ordered to summon his commandant. Nana! I whispered. Japanese cast-off! Now she had been kidnapped too. I mulled this over as I walked home to my verandah. I tried to rekindle the fire of my passion from the past, but apparently it didn't want to flare up again. Someone like Nana deserved pity. In the time of hunger she had chosen to be a concubine for the Japanese; in the time of the Revolution, she had no right to choose—in fact her very body had been taken hostage. When I'd almost reached my verandah, I didn't go in, but went straight to Nana's house. She came out from her room. I congratulated her on her luck in being freed from the clutches of a robber and a traitor. I saw no trace of happiness on her face. She looked disheveled, as if trying to collect her thoughts. She bowed her head low. Looked up at me for a moment. Bowed lower. Then she sat on the chair facing me. But I did not pay all of this much heed. When a group of military police arrived at her house, I excused myself. She was not as cheerful as before. She had withered. And in the days that followed, after realizing that every night one of the soldiers under my command would visit her, wanting to marry her, I never went to her house again...

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A few months later she left Tjikampek without saying good-bye to me. The soldier who wanted to marry her never mentioned anything to me either. But the happiness that had flared up in him was now abruptly snuffed out. He became a loner. In fact, one day he asked to be given an assignment at a post which was just being set up. So I sent him there carrying a carbine, which he had in fact already owned long before becoming a soldier. He went off alone to the isolated communications post. For the first two days, news arrived from him through the army post and by telephone. But on the third day I heard nothing more from him. And so it went for fifteen days. When we investigated, it turned out that this soldier had set off from his post, carrying the carbine, to get some provisions from the support base. But at some secluded waning* he was ambushed by several people. They seized the carbine and killed him. Now no stories about Nana would ever issue from his mouth. After a while I gathered a bit of information: the robber who'd abducted Nana was named Chalil. As more time passed, I collected more information about him. For example, that he had lived in Djakarta since childhood. That he had lived in an alley in Kemajoran.5 That during the Japanese Occupation he had been a merchant, trading anything and everything. That this was the first time in all his life that he had traveled into the interior. And this information made me think back to my alley and to one of my neighbors who had the same name as he. Because I could no longer contain my curiosity, I went to the barracks of the military police to look in on this robber who was hated by everyone on the base. When I entered his cell, the first thing I noticed was the mole on the bridge of his nose. That mole belonged to my neighbor Chalil. I couldn't recognize the rest of his face because it was engulfed in swellings and scars from burning cigarettes. "Chalil!" I whispered. He lifted his head and defied my eyes. 1 could see that those were indeed the eyes of my neighbor, although they now looked like nothing more than palm-leaf spines. As he looked at me, his eyes suddenly flared up full of vengeful hate. And the hatred was also directed at me—his own friend. He did not open his mouth. Probably because his lips were stiff and his tongue was numb. The smallpox scars on his neck and a mole on his cheek brought my thoughts back to the Japanese Occupation and all the difficulties and small pleasures that we had experienced together. Was it possible that Chalil was a robber? Had the Revolution really changed the youth who had been so polite, in both his manner and his thinking, into a kidnapper of women? We both dropped our gaze at the same time. I heard his weary voice: "I don't believe that I have done one thing that goes against the teachings of Islam. But it means nothing. You are a soldier, and you have to side with your comrades. Even though you know me, even though you want to help me, you're better off saving yourself. Besides, there's not the slightest thing you can do to help me. If you try to help me, you'll lose your own life." Signaling with his hand he asked for something to drink. And I brought him a glass of unsweetened tea. "Tomorrow I'll be shot," he said. "But it's nothing. It is good that you came. I remain faithful to God and to my religion. This death of mine will be all the better if only it will make her happy."

No Resolution 115 Her? I asked in my heart. Nana? But I only heard his faint, rasping voice as if he spoke from very far away, a voice heavy with vengefulness. 'Til be shot tomorrow," he repeated. "But I will not die! I will live on in the hearts of those who have slandered me." "YouVe been slandered?" I asked. "Ah, it's better if no one knows about it. But remember this: if the Revolution is over some day, and you have the chance to go back to our kampung in Djakarta, deliver this word of me to my parents. I feel lucky that someone I know has come to see me, even if he cannot help me and has no intention to do so." He did not continue. He signaled me to leave. He wanted to be alone, to prepare himself for his death the next day. And so I staggered unsteadily from his cell. My head was filled with thousands of feverish questions, bitter and entangled. Several people eyed me with suspicion. But I paid no attention. I spoke about Chalil to the commandant of the military police, explaining that I knew him. That he was known for his religious devotion and that it was inconceivable that he would commit a crime like this. But he only answered: "His accuser knows more about it than you do!" "I also know his accuser," I said. But that discussion did not proceed any further. And that discussion did not have the power to make him change his decision (at that time there were no military courts). On one bright morning, as I was heading for the front lines with my troops, on the back of a flat-bed truck, I saw a procession of prisoners being herded to the place of execution. In front were the prisoners who had betrayed the military: a man who had supplied raw materials to NICA, along with his two assistants, while after this trio came another small procession. The prisoner was tall and his hair long and matted. His two hands were tied behind him. A rope extending from his hands up over his shoulder encircled his neck and was tied at the nape; if his hands, tied behind him were not raised as high as he could hold them, the path for his breath would be obstructed, like someone who was hanging himself. The other end of the rope extended to the rear and was held by a soldier who carried a carbine on his shoulder. Three or four more soldiers flanked them from behind. "It's him!" screamed one from among us. "Chalil!" Someone next to me laughed. "This is his day of reckoning." I looked at Chalil. I had first recognized him by the mole on the bridge of his nose. I nearly screamed in agony at this new spectacle. I did not recognize his face at all, because what had already been terribly swollen had by now swelled to two or three times the size, so that his head resembled a small, upside-down water-pitcher. The eyes that yesterday resembled a pair of small palm-leaf spines had now disappeared, swallowed by a swelling that was dark blue and full of fluid, while here and there were streaked scars from burning cigarettes. The smallpox scars on his neck had disappeared, and even the little mole on his cheek had been burned off. But he walked steadily, giving this impression to all the Revolutionaries who surrounded him: This is I, the one who is able to endure all that you inflict upon me. It's not possible! Not possible! my heart shrieked. He had courage, for he had a truth to which he held all the more firmly as his death approached. One of us jumped up from the truckbed, ran to confront the helpless Chalil, and punched him in the chest. "Take that, robber!" he screamed.

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The victim slumped over, staggering backwards. A soldier behind him caught him with his knee, so that Chalil twisted sideways and collapsed onto the wet ground. Some laughed happily, but many others shut their eyes, even covered them with their hands! "That's not fair!" someone exclaimed. But the soldier just smiled in shame. Then the procession of prisoners continued, turning down a muddy alley. Everyone knew its destination, a clump of bamboo at the edge of a lake. There Chalil would meet his fate. He must have wanted that death by three bullets, after suffering so much torture. When our truck drove off onto a road shorn bald of asphalt, the songs we sang together died in our throats, and we fell abruptly silent. Dust billowed up and then rained back down on us as the truck sped along toward the frontlines. Between the greening sawah, dry-rice fields, hovels and new-built bamboo houses flashed by momentarily.6 My memories wandered back to times long past, to a world in which one of the inhabitants was my alleyway friend named Chalil. Suddenly I could hear his voice chanting from the Koran as humankind slipped into its deepest slumber, in the night's darkest hour. His dreamy voice pierced die dew and the morning mist, wandering in search of God. And most likely we were all thinking about Chalil and his fate. The soldier who had punched Chalil hid the hand he had used in his pants pocket. Some eyes were turned in his direction. And he stared at the floor. Suddenly someone shouted: "Every troublemaker must be crushed! Every traitor must be flattened! But was Chain really guilty?" No one answered. And the truck hurtled on, cutting through the billows of dust and a distance that seemed without end. Perhaps all of us wanted an answer to this question. I myself couldn't get the answer for which I hoped. When the truck stopped, we went off, each with his own duties.

A few days later, our front, which had just been pushed forward four kilometers, was hit by the enemy. We suffered defeat. The line in front ran back helter-skelter toward the second line. There we reassembled. That night back-up forces arrived. A unit of the military police also came to clean up the area from the chaos wrought by enemy spies. Some women and men accused of being spies were killed, beheaded without any prolonged investigation. One night someone who had just been brought in from our base slept next to me. I didn't know much about him. He was a quiet type and preferred to brood, so that I couldn't help but ask what it was that he was always brooding about. He smiled bitterly. Then he answered: "I'm an executioner, pak." My hair suddenly stood on end, stiff as a scraping-board. An executioner was sleeping next to me. But I worked up my courage and went on to ask: "Do you like being an executioner?" Once again he smiled bitterly. "Like it? Yes. The gushing blood ..." he didn't continue. "So what is it you're always brooding about?"

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"The last days and moments of those poor bastards. I often brood about death. Why, when facing death, do so many people become cowards? Why do so many act like bantji? Specially when they've been so vicious and brutal before? And then there are the ones who slander their own friends so that they too are dragged off to the valley of death. There are even those who..." "How did the NIC A supplier act when he faced death? You were the one who finished him off, weren't you? He moved to turn his back to me. Slowly, without passion he tells the story, "Yes, I know he was very arrogant when he was still free. With a sarong hanging over his shoulder, he'd go through kampung after kampung looking for raw materials. If someone was bold enough to offer a ringgit, he'd double the offer. That's the image in my mind. In the end all the raw materials fell into his hands. Where did he get all the money! Where? Why did he choose to side with NICA and look down on us? That was his arrogance. And then when he was blindfolded, he threw himself on the ground: 'Mercy, pak, mercy, pak. Let me live. I only traded to get food for my wife and child. Nothing more.' And when the signal to prepare to fire was heard, he threw himself on the ground and rolled around like a small child asking for candy from his dirt-poor mother. And I was that mother, a mother without a cent of mercy." He coughed deeply. "I saw the blood gush from an artery that had been severed by a bullet. How beautifully it spouted! How powerfully it sprayed out! Not for long. Then the spouting slowed, and the blood dripped out only gradually. That was the beauty of it." "Not with a samurai sword?" "For someone like me, a samurai brings all the more pleasure and beauty, but it's the memory of their last words that inspires the most awe. And almost always they enter my dreams. Such were the last days and the last words of that NICA supplier. His two assistants just kept silent and quietly accepted their fate. Quite the opposite of Chalil, damn him!" Abruptly he turned over and faced me. Then he sat up. His clenched his infamous hand into a fist and he waved it threateningly, at no one in particular. "Chalil, curse him! 'Shoot me/ he said. 'I will not die. I will live forever in all of your hearts.' That bastard! After being tortured so long he still had the nerve to open his mouth like that. And his words haunt me still. Everyone aimed at his head so it was scattered to pieces. When we ordered him to dig his own grave, he did it, so neatly and carefully. He did it while reciting the talkin, the bastard!"7 That night I imagined the last day and last words of Chalil. I, too, continued to hear his voice, even in my dreams: I will live forever in all of your hearts. I will live inside you all!

For some years after that, the name Nana did not cross my mind. Neither did Chalil. I killed off the memory of the pious robber in my soul, as more and more bastards betrayed our struggle. I never imagined that one day Nana and Chalil would again torment my thoughts. Yet in fact, Chalil, who was long gone, swallowed up by the earth, began to live afresh in my mind until, whether I liked it or not, his words came back into my memory:

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I will not die! I will live forever in your hearts! It happened like this: One day, during the period of my internment, the commandant of the jail decided to allow the prisoners to receive visitors.8 After that, throngs of women, young and old, visited our jail every Sunday (men weren't allowed). Yes, one day, to my astonishment, Nana arrived with a friend of hers. She wore a low-cut yellow taffeta gown with the hemline reaching just below her knees. Her cheeks were covered with rouge applied rather thickly and she wore pink lipstick. Her eyebrows had been shaved and replaced with eyebrow pencil. The skin on her face looked so soft, like velvet. She looked beautiful, even more so than before. Her body had lost its fleshy voluptuousness and had grown slender, but her movements were stiff and hurried. She too had come to cheer the prisoners. I followed her with my eyes. It seemed she did not really have any friend in the jail. As I watched her, not a single prisoner addressed her, and she handed the package that she had brought to one of my friends. I saw my friend, who had no relatives in Djakarta, say thank you. And from then on, he had an acquaintance. Because she still seemed so nervous, I approached her. I saw her jump, startled to see me. Her face, already pale, grew paler still. I extended my hand to her. She took my hand with one that quivered. "Are you sick, Nana?" She shook her head. I tried to get her to open her mouth a number of times. But her mouth, which now seemed wider than before, remained mute. A few hours then passed, and the time for visits ended. I saw her stagger wearily to the gate of the iron fence. My friend accompanied her. The next Sunday she came again. She came every Sunday, the day for visits.

Then came the time of Independence. We in the jail went our separate ways. Only once in a while, by accident, did we meet again. But some news leaked out: Nana had married my friend from the jail. After that, I began to hear a lot about her. She no longer lived in my kampung in Kemajoran. Since leaving Tjikampek, she had moved to another kampung. The first news that I heard was this: they were living happily and she and her husband were busy realizing their dreams. The second bit of news: They often argued, and her husband always disappeared at the end of their arguments. The third bit of news: Nana had given birth to a boy. The fourth: Nana often screamed like a madwoman. And when she was in that state, her husband was left to do all the work. The fifth: her husband had been fired from his job because he often did not show up for work. He had taken a new job in a trading office. The sixth: Husband and wife had bought a simple house in a kampung not far from mine. The seventh: Nana would often lose her senses and have seizures like a madwoman. After being like this for a while, she would collapse into unconsciousness. When she'd start to come to, a whisper could be heard coming weakly from her mouth: "Chalil, forgive me. Ya, Chalil." And if her attention were not immediately diverted to everyday matters, she'd start roaring like a lioness furious at the loss of her cubs. Then she'd sob like an old grandma who has been left all alone on this earth. All this news came to me over a three-year period.

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And I still did not understand what the problem was. And I had no desire to get the facts and understand. But one day, I called upon Chalil's parents and met his father. He still wore the same white hadji's cap and yellow selendang.9 He seemed no younger than before, but had become fatter. They now had many more household goods than previously; and in the corner of the living-room they even had a salon radio of the latest model. As I sat down in a chair, I suddenly remembered Chalil's request that I ask his parents about his life with Nana. So, after the various formalities, I proceeded. In a calm voice his father told me: Immediately after Independence was proclaimed, Chalil, who had loved Nana for quite a while, proposed to her.10 The proposal was accepted. His parents themselves had no confidence in the future of this new household. Why? Because Chalil was a very serious young man. Nana, on the other hand, was someone who didn't take anything seriously. Including her own self-respect. Chalil's parents did not agree to their son's taking a wife who had been with a Japanese—several Japanese, in fact. But Chalil was able to forgive all of the weaknesses and the stains on the character of the woman he loved. So they married. "But then," his father said, "a few weeks later—only a few weeks—I heard shameful accusations against my son's good name. My son Chalil, who was so pure! What did they say, nafc?11 They said he married Nana only because he had his eye on her possessions. Masjaallah, tainted possessions from those bastard Japanese. Son-tolo-jol12 At the most all of it together wouldn't be worth more than two thousand now, nak. My son was accused of trying to get his hands on things worth only that much! Think of it! It was humiliating." He spat on the floor. He spat on the floor with all of the force of the tension in his neck. "Humiliating!" he snorted with disgust. "That traitor! When their child was born, nak, their first child, the child was passed on to us. And its eyes were slanted too! Five months married, and she gave birth to a slant-eyed baby! The Prophet forgive me. No, nak, I did not give the child away. I welcomed it with open arms. At the very least, it had a whiff of Chalil's blood about it. Chalil himself never saw the slant-eyed baby. He never came home." "Where is Chalil now, pak?" I asked. "Who knows where he went, nak? When the English began to run wild here, that traitor urged Chalil to flee to the interior. After that, he never returned. Nana came back alone. After turning over the slant-eyed baby, she never showed up here again. I myself didn't want to see her. And as for Chalil, I don't know if he is alive or dead, or just hesitant to come home because he wants to forget that traitor, Nana. He really loved her. That was his only sin, if he ever sinned at all." How pitiful! I said in my heart. He still did not know that his child had been ripped apart and killed after being slandered by the woman he loved: Nana. And I too felt that I had sinned against Chalil, because I too had once accused him of being a real robber. I even wrote a rotten story about him. So it is to acknowledge my error and my sin, even though, being long dead, he cannot forgive my error and my sin, that I've written this present story. My heart weighed down with thoughts, I left Chalil's parents' house without telling them of the horrifying events which had befallen their child. And as for Nana?

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With her husband, she has had several more children. At least twice a week she loses her senses. But hadn't she, since childhood, prepared herself to channel her lust in this direction? With no resolution. These days Chalil truly lives on in my heart.

* In later Dutch colonial times, the Concordia was an exclusive club-house for upper-level administrators and wealthy businessmen. During the Japanese Occupation the building, located not far from the Governor-General's palace, was used as a brothel for Japanese officers. 2 Balai Pustaka was the major book-shop and publishing house of the colonial era, established and financed by the colonial government. During the Japanese occupation, the Balai Pustaka was owned by the Japanese military government. As the Dutch language was banned at that time, the Balai Pustaka produced and sold books in Indonesian and Japanese. The Balai Pustaka was nationalized after 1949. 3 NICA—Netherlands Indies Civil Administration. This was the skeleton Dutch-colonial civil administrative structure set up late in 1945 while the Allied forces in Java and Sumatra were still commanded by Lord Mountbatten, and the Netherlands itself had no troops available. 4 warung—roadside food or coffee stall. 5 Kemajoran was then an outlying and poor district in East Djakarta. 6 Sawah—wet-rice (paddy) fields. ^ Talkin— Islamic prayer whispered in the ear of a Muslim on the point of death. 8 Pramoedya served in the Republican armed forces during the Revolution and was assigned to Tjikampek. Later he was captured by the Dutch and served time in Djakarta's Bukit Duri prison. 9 Selendang — shawl, usually worn diagonally across the body. ^ Sukarno and Hatta originally proclaimed Indonesia's independence on August 17,1945, just two days after Japan announced its unconditional surrender to the Allies. But the independence was militarily contested thereafter by the returning Dutch. Formal transfer of sovereignty to a United States of Indonesia did not take place till the end of 1949. 11 nak—son, child. Term of address commonly used for someone of a younger generation. Jakarta dialect for anak. 12 Son-to-lo-jo—Sontolojo, an exclamation of disapproval or dislike, usually directed at another person.

XL THE MASTERMIND Officially: He is a bureau chief. He is the supervisor of several high officials and no less than one thousand two hundred and thirty mid- and low-level employees and underlings scattered throughout all the large cities in Indonesia. On official visits these subordinates receive him with the honors due to a general. And his employees, with hearts full of hope, look to him for kindness, for attention, for promotions. Within his sphere of influence he is a god with total authority over the retention or termination of his work-force. The popular view: He is a patriot whom his homeland and people will mourn deeply when he passes from this life. Unfortunately this popularity has gradually taken hold of him to such an extent that he himself now believes it. Outside his formal duties as bureau chief he is the chairman of several associations and movements. This has further increased his popularity amongst the people. Meanwhile the younger generation has become increasingly discontented with him and has taken to calling him a "professional chairman." (Of course they would never say it in front of him.) Such is Tuan Kariumun, according to official and popular opinion, and to what is outwardly apparent! But I have no intention of relaying this official and popular view. Quite the opposite in fact. I want to tell a story from a perspective that is not official, not apparent, and not popular.

Before the Japanese threw the Indonesian people into disorder during their time of occupation, Mas Kariumun was already a popular favorite due to his superlative ability in the field of pentjak.1 Everywhere he went he took the championship. Pentjak experts from the mountains and the valleys were all itching for a chance to wring his neck. But he remained the champion. Once he was jumped by a gang of thugs. But he threw all four of his attackers into a heap. Still the champ. Soon his name was known both in the cities and in the villages. Anyone who read the papers also knew his name. And because they had never seen his picture they imagined him as a tall, wellbuilt man with a pointy moustache stiffened with wax each morning and evening. The reality: he was a runt and skinny too. As a person involved in political movements (he began as a debt-collector and was thus known to everyone from the bottom up) he, of course, came also to be widely known in the world of the press. And as a civil servant of the Dutch East Indies government he succeeded in attaining a high position for those times. Then Japan took control. The high Dutch officials were removed. And so he became a deputy bureau chief. In Djakarta, of course! His glowing reputation in official reports and his attractiveness in the public eye made it easy for him to win the hearts of the Japanese

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and to win a significant source of wealth as well. All of his recommendations, regarding the details of official work, or concerning manipulations of the bureau inventory so that necessities would be close to hand, were carried out by his supervisor, a Japanese. And in those times of hunger Tuan Kariumun, once a tiny runt, became short and fat. He no longer trained his muscles, so that he began to swell up like an unofficial Hercules, like a Hercules in miniature. But there was something more important than all of this; he had become a demigod. A constant stream of friends and acquaintances came to him asking for work. Of course, this was all unofficial. But in order to guard his popularity he had to take care of them. For the sake of popularity! Some of them were granted their wishes. The remainder were given partial assistance. But partial assistance was still worth more than none at all. This much can be said: Tuan Kariumun ascended the ladder of success with a swagger. Outside of his official duties, Tuan Kariumun had, in fact, many difficulties, including difficulties within himself. The Mrs., for example, was incapable of respecting him either as a human being or as a husband. The first, because, as the Mrs. told her relatives and close friends, he was extremely greedy, was insincere in all things, was only inspired to action by desire for popularity, was lustful, and regarded other people as mere sheep useful only to be shepherded, milked, and then slaughtered in the cause of his popularity. How far all this was true or false perhaps only the Mrs. knew. Secondly, according to the wife, again as related to relatives and close friends, Tuan Kariumun was a failure as a husband. He never took the needs or the happiness of his wife into serious consideration. Most often he stayed away from the house, touring the provinces, making speeches and propagandizing in public meetings and on the radio. But—this also according to the Mrs.—he never hit the mark, never provided the real thing we wanted but merely garbage we should throw out instead. As a father, this time according to a former neighbor, he was also a failure. He had never cradled even one of his children in his arms and never showed them any affection. When he was home he always did the same thing; read the newspaper and nothing but the newspaper. Before he finished reading it no one else was allowed to touch it. His own children regarded him as a god. The god Yamadipati, the god with authority over their lives and deaths.2 And regarding his children and wife, for Mas Kariumun there were only two alternatives, command or forbid. Mas Kariumun had been married to his wife for fifteen years and was graced with six legitimate children. During their fifteen years of marriage his wife had always dreamed of a time when her husband would take her and the children away on a trip so that he would come to understand the happiness of married life. As for himself, Mas Kariumun carried his own burden; he regretted the unsettledness of his heart. At times, when he was alone, he felt as if his heart had shriveled up, that he had no right to be as famous and popular as he was. He thought over his skills and talents. None. Except pentjak. But should this world be governed by a pentjak champion? He replied: yes. But an inner voice screamed with terrible sharpness: no! no! And things like this meant that every time he was alone his heart would shiver from a cold, shrunken feeling. Not like in a mass meeting. There his heart was always proud and the cheers of the audience made his miniature Herculean body become gigantic: Misery for those he crossed and crushed, success for all of his desires and aspirations.

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Then came the time of Revolution. He knew where the people wanted to go, and, aware of the changing conditions, he immersed himself in military affairs. He became a lieutenant-colonel, commander of fifteen thousand followers, among them five hundred with firearms, two with automatic weapons, and one with a mortar. And in those days his prestige rose higher and higher. The leadership of the Armed Forces valued his suggestions. He drew the secret of his knowledge of military matters from his expertise in silat. Silat is individual and military affairs are collective. But both of them rest on the same basis. During those times a samurai sword and a Mauser dangled at Tuan Kariumun's waist. His badges of rank formed rows of shimmering gold bars. Almost every soldier who crossed his path was compelled to stop and salute. He felt himself truly a hero. Only once were he and his followers drawn into battle with the enemy, but they managed to slip away. And when the Dutch launched waves of attacks, the defenses in his region collapsed. He and his troops became guerrilla fighters. Sometimes he was astonished by his own courage. At times he was also surprised to realize that others regarded him as brave. But in solitary moments he was confronted with annoying questions: Are you really brave? And after rather lengthy consideration that damned inner voice called out. "No, you are not a brave person, you are merely a hanger-on. Your courage is only the courage to shelter your life behind your troops/' And he felt very small. As a result of this accusation it was nearly certain that he would join his troops in carrying out some local operation. But just for this reason he was even more widely regarded as courageous by his followers and by the people who witnessed him in action. After independence was completely assured, he received, in an official ceremony, a guerrilla hero's medal and countless letters of commendation from the local government, all bearing witness to his heroism and love for the motherland. He returned to Djakarta and became a bureau chief. In the time of liberation, too, his reputation continued to grow. Once he almost became a government minister. The only problem was that he happened not to be home and thus could not be located by faeformateur? This misfortune was for him the cause of endless regret. If things had gone differently he would have already reached the peak of his career. But some years later young journalists appeared who behaved like wild bulls run amok, stabbing left and right with their horns, or like crazed water-buffalo thirsting for victims. Names which had formerly been held in respect and esteem were now torn down and scattered by them with the ease of someone scattering a peanutvendor's wares. He himself did not escape the ferocity of this gang of journalists. In short order, a wave of criticisms and insults came his way. What did they say? "No longer the proper choice under the present circumstances. In fact it's more appropriate to call him an idiot!" And then there was something that truly upset him. "His moustache ought to be ripped out at the roots so that his vision will become clear and his true face revealed." "My lord!!! Those damned journalists have the nerve to propose ripping out my moustache!" In fact, in his heart he confirmed many of their views. At times he was astonished at how these kids, who were young enough to be his baby brothers, could so quickly decipher so many complex matters. But he was always able to whisper something in his shriveled heart: a bureau chief is more important than anything! This also meant that their criticisms would be overcome by his popularity. And,

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when at home, if his wife asked his opinion of all this criticism, he would just smile derisively. At most he would say gently: "They don't know anything. They should be forgiven." But in his heart curses and oaths raged at the journalists who were the masterminds of this bad publicity. One thing that was unknown to him was the attitude held by some of his employees towards his popular persona. He himself had no faith, no trust in obsequious bootlickers. The bootlickers were in fact more dangerous to his popularity and position than the employees who openly opposed him, and even had the nerve to loathe him. He knew the characteristics of the bootlickers: they only sought pleasure and happiness for themselves without a care for those they flattered or for those on whom they trampled. And how furious he was when, on one occasion, he fired an employee who was a member of the opposition, and this employee calmly entered his office, chuckled softly, and then stated the words that were in fact the voice of his own conscience: "Sir, thank you for dismissing me, sir. At the very least now I better understand that, you, sir, are a stupid person."

Once, in his days of glory, when his name was held in the highest esteem, an employee who was the sole expert in his field in Indonesia defiantly challenged his views in a working-committee meeting. With pointing finger and a mastery of his field of expertise, the employee had launched accusations at him. And he'd been unable to utter a single word to fend off the conclusions put forth by the enraged expert. But at last his voice returned to him. "Who is in charge here? You or me?" In that meeting the competence of the employee meant nothing. But he did not let it go at that. The employee was defeated and backed down. Yet he demanded justice from the society that had provided his livelihood. He wrote a number of articles in the newspapers and magazines. Tuan Kariumun was incredibly angry. Even more unfortunate was the fact that people who really understood the problem sided with the expert. To sate his rage and to silence the accusations of his own conscience he dismissed the employee from government service. "Why?" the journalists asked him. "Insubordination," replied Tuan Kariumun. "But wasn't he right on this issue?" "It's not a matter of right and wrong. The problem is that he contradicted policy. Policy means maintaining teamwork. A bureau is not based on individual initiative but rather on teamwork." "But shouldn't one heed the voice of an expert?" "At the very least, he took matters that should have been resolved internally and confused them in the public eye." For the umpteenth time, Tuan Kariumun successfully defended his official authority and his popularity. He let the debate die down. Finally, his former employee fell silent, and the populace from whom he had demanded justice apparently did not understand what the problem was. Society fell silent as well. Tuan Kariumun triumphed again, for the umpteenth time.

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Because he lived continuously within the sphere of officialdom and popularity, when at home Mas Kariumun felt alien, as if he were a tree-stump in the middle of a field of grass. He felt so estranged, even from himself, that one day, while his wife was giving birth to their seventh child at the hospital, his heart suddenly trembled violently as he watched his maid bow her head humbly before him while bringing him his cafe an lait: her body so voluptuous, so non-official, so non-popular, so genuine!—and so submissive. Quick as lightning his heart considered the possibilities. "Is this really me?" And quick as lightning came the answer. "Yes, this is me." It wasn't that he felt the least ashamed of himself. For an instant, out of the corner of his eye, he peered at the maid. So voluptuous. Not skinny and decrepit like his wife. His vision swirled and his mouth felt dry. Of course he frequently consorted with women who were not forbidden to him by religion.4 But this one was different: because she lived under his own roof, because he was completely used to seeing her, because she was his maid. Of its own accord his body began to move and his cresting lust pulsed, seeking release. Suddenly his conscience attacked him, "Watch it!" But before he could heed the attack of his conscience the roiling up of his blood became uncontrollable. Her body so voluptuous, so non-official, so genuine! and so servant-like in its surrender—such were the words that kept rhythm with the quickening flow of his blood. And the maid returned to the kitchen with innocent footsteps. Tuan Kariumun gazed at her rear as it swayed gently, like any woman's, with each step. Mas Kariumun smiled with pleasure. And admiration sparked in his thoughts: "She's still young meat." This idea caused his blood to roil up again with tremendous intensity. He waited for the maid's return while resolving to make a decision concerning what would happen between himself and the woman. But before he made up his mind, a colossal force compelled him to stand up and dragged him, like a water-buffalo on a nose-rope, to the rear of the house. His glazed, disoriented gaze now locked itself on the place from which sounds emanated—and these sounds were made by the maid. And he encountered the maid doing the laundry in the bathroom. And the maid knew nothing of the pounding of his heart. At first he hesitated to enter the bathroom. He was afraid that someone might witness his actions. But quick as lightning he made peace with his conscience. A loud voice from within him, escaping unnoticed and unsupervised, announced: "I have the courage to take responsibility. Responsibility for everything I do." And he tapped on the bathroom door. "Nah, open the door." "Yes, master." The door opened. Mas Kariumun vanished, swallowed up by the bathroom. The lock on the bathroom door clicked into place. At first there were sounds of violent struggle. But in the end the struggle died away. Sexual congress between men and women is normal, of course! What isn't normal is an accusing conscience.

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The first to emerge from the bathroom was Mas Kariumun, his eyelids half lowered, with a steadfast gaze. He was sowing conviction in his own heart. "She won't get pregnant." He was also rebutting the accusations of his conscience. "It's no sin! It's nothing improper. It's simply the normal relationship between a master and his servant. What's no good is democracy. Democracy and the social transformation from the feudal towards the democratic. We're used to making sacrifices." (And he remembered the guerrilla medal bestowed upon him by the government. He thought back on the medals and letters of commendation that he had received from various local governments for his services to the Republic. And he also recalled the people to whom he'd suggested that he ought to receive these medals!) "Something grand can only be achieved through sacrifice. That's why we need a lot of ignorant people to sacrifice. And by the sacrifice of this cheap woman my thoughts will remain lucid for the proper execution of my bureau's duties and for the benefit of society." Reaching his own room he lay down, and now came face to face with his conscience. And at just that moment the maid came out of the bathroom. Her face was downcast and drawn. Her tears were flowing and her hair was a tangled mess. Her body was still soaking wet. When she got to the servant's quarters, her own room, she rushed inside and lay down, sobbing softly.

In some obscure circles, Mas Kariumun was, as bureau head, regarded as a reactionary. He was seen as a person who always clung firmly to his political party's line. His subordinates bemoaned his arrogance and cursed the impenetrable fortress of his nationalness. "National! National!" It was this single word that was heard so often issuing from his mouth. Or: "A-national! A-national!" A slap in the faces of subordinates who had been, or would be, fired. But in the depths of his heart he did not know what national and a-national meant. His impenetrable fortress was actually a citadel of smoke. When his party took control of the government he made a series of speeches in the large cities of Java before audiences of widely diverse affiliations, concerns, and preferences. Particularly in his home town, where he first had been able to take over an extremely favorable position during the Dutch colonial period, he opened every door and ear, and he knocked on the doors of every heart to make them open to his speeches. Election campaign time was a period of trance-like frenzy for him. For weeks at a time he went almost entirely without sleep, two hours at most each night. From city to city his successes piled up, earning him praise from the ruling committee of the party. And the second election brought a victory by a large margin for his party. He was elected a member of parliament and subsequently as a member of the Constituent Assembly.5 Only then, for the first time in his life, did he feel completely calm; no longer was he harried by insecurity about his abilities. "Popularity is the best guarantee," he said to convince himself. "With fame all the little sins vanish of their own accord. Moreover, people won't believe that a famous person carries the burden of small sins. Much less great sins."

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Meanwhile, his relationship with the maid had become truly routine. One night when for the umpteenth time he pretended to need to relieve himself, thanks to a stomach upset from eating the wrong thing at some embassy reception, his wife closed her eyes but did not sleep again until her husband returned to her side. And she began again to commit to memory the spiritual ordeal being played out on the countenance of the bureau chief, her husband. The wife's heart had long spoken and listened to the conscience of her husband. But still she remained silent. On that night, for the first time since their sexual relations began, the maid had the courage to ask for money. Mas Kariumun promised her: "Tomorrow, at five in the morning/' He arose very early the next morning (usually he got up at seven and arrived at the office one or two hours later) and gave the maid three hundred rupiah. He didn't know what the money was for. In the afternoon, by the time Mas Kariumun returned from the office, the maid had already quit her job. His sense of relief was overwhelming. "Now I won't be troubled by that temptress, that slut." Furthermore he wouldn't be troubled by his conscience. The maid was far away. The maid had vanished from his heart. The maid no longer occupied a place in his thoughts. And some days later the cabinet dominated by his party collapsed. Several days after that three young men came to his house. "Must be looking for work," he thought. "Sir," said one of them, "two days in a row we tried to meet you at your office, but you, sir, would not receive us. What else could we do? We were left no choice but to come to your home." "Comrades," said Tuan Kariumun, "as you surely know, the cabinet has just fallen. So I'm terribly busy trying to establish a new cabinet. In half an hour I have a meeting with the party's central committee." How surprised Mas Kariumun was when the three youths remained in their seats. One of them even winked at him. And he tried to intimidate the one who winked. "What I mean is, I've no time." And the youth laughed derisively. He even had the temerity to say: "The party is just crap if it's only important for itself. Both the government and the party, if they can't bring happiness to families, are useless." Mas Kariumun couldn't suppress his anger. His national feelings flared up suddenly, flaming, burning. "So, comrades, you are a-national agitators! Very well. I'm going to telephone the police." The young man who had winked grabbed Mas Kariumun's hand, but he hadn't yet forgotten his championship pentjak skills and he easily threw off the youth's hand. "If that's how it is," said a youth who had kept silent until then, "we'll discuss this matter directly with the lady of the house." "These hicks are really dumb," thought Mas Kariumun. "They just don't seem to understand that the Mrs. has nothing to do with national affairs." And he grinned condescendingly. Then spoke decisively: "Get out! Go! If it is truly important come back again tomorrow."

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"We do not have time to wait that long," said the youth who had winked at him earlier. "It's now or never, like it or not. If you refuse, then we'll have to stick it to you." "What do you mean, stick it to me?" "Stick it to you, sir. With bamboo spears. With golok.6 Whatever." "My responsibilities are greater than yours, comrades. Why the need to resort to force?" "Very well. Very well. We'll settle this with your wife," continued another of the young men. Suddenly a suspicion arose in Mas Kariumun's heart. Maybe they're relatives of the maid, he guessed. "Very well, please speak up now." Tuan Kariumun gave in. After one of the three had delivered a long circuitous speech they arrived at the heart of the matter, which also served as the conclusion to the speech. "Sir, you must take responsibility." "For what?" "For what? Wasn't it you, sir, that got our little sister pregnant?" For an instant Tuan Kariumun felt as if his nose had swollen up to such a size that he could inhale the entire human race, including himself. He sat down heavily on the sofa, tormented by his seemingly hugely swollen nose. His breathing came short and halting.

Suddenly an idea sparked in his mind. And immediately he tossed this spark to his three guests. "How can you make such accusations, comrades? Who is your witness? Where is the proof?" "We do not wish to force you to become our in-law sir, only that you take responsibility. Isn't it true, sir, that you frequently make speeches to the youth urging them to take full responsibility for their actions?" "I always take responsibility. But in this case, comrades, you have simply brought an accusation and I am supposed just to accept it? Impossible! Where is the proof and where are the witnesses?" "Very well. We'll get proof and witnesses from your wife, sir. Surely the lady of the house will have a lot to say about your movements at certain times, sir." And Mas Kariumun now realized that he had begun to tremble slightly. In his head he imagined all the people who respected him, praised him, and held him up as a divinity. Now he felt his world was shaking and on the point of collapse. "So, sir, are you willing to take responsibility? So we don't need to stick it to you? We don't need to do anything dirty? Very good. We expect that on this day, next week, at five in the evening, you, sir, will marry our younger sister. Prepare the paperwork, sir." "Very well," said Tuan Kariumun. "We realize that we must keep all of this secret. You can divorce our sister after the wedding; just so long as the baby that is to be born will know who its father is, and that our little sister won't be too deeply humiliated by people." This time Tuan Kariumun was defeated. A tidal wave of anxiety shattered his confidence in himself.

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At the appointed hour on the precise day that he had promised, Tuan Kariumun was shivering with cold (his heart was freezing, but his body was still hot!) in a Chinese restaurant. His very character was shivering with cold. He had already drunk two glasses of beer. Never before had he drunk so much. He felt his vision swaying slightly. He wanted to think in a composed manner, but he couldn't! He could only hope. If only the maid agrees to accept my gardener. It's not for nothing that I've given him seven hundred rupiah. After that he went to a movie theater to while away the two remaining hours before he was to give a speech to an assembly of physical education cadres. At seven o'clock sharp his car arrived at his destination and he was now standing before his audience. And because his audience was composed of aspiring physical education teachers and because his thoughts were so frozen, he was forced to fall back on intoning outdated platitudes in a loud but hollow voice. "Esteemed audience! It is indeed true: within each healthy body there resides a healthy spirit." The audience evaluated his body. At least Tuan Kariumun was still stout, even if the health of his body was dubious, not to mention his spiritual health. The faces of the crowd lit up happily. And Tuan Kariumun smiled left and right and repeated the words that apparently had fallen on fertile ground. In from the right side came three young men who stood erect beside the door. They also listened to his sermon. Tuan Kariumun continued his lecturing. The audience was happy, at times breaking into roars of cheerful laughter. But when Mas Kariumun, about to harvest a warm applause from his listeners, turned his head from right to left, his eyes collided with three pairs of eyes at the side entrance. He saw their stares as if they were lightning bolts striking his neck. He tried to steel his gaze and to strengthen his spirit. But each attempt was a failure. All his courage had vanished. A voice echoed in his soul. "Come on, let's stick it to him." "I'm not afraid of being roughed up," said Tuan Kariumun. What really terrified him was humiliation and the collapse of his popularity, his official standing, his public persona. Meanwhile, the goodwill that he had just planted in the fertile young hearts of his audience seemed to him to have burned to a crisp. Those three pairs of eyes ruined everything. For a moment Mas Kariumun felt as if his brain had leapt out of his head like a spring loosed from its screw, and crashing off who knows where. The knuckles of his toes curled up. He collapsed as a public figure on a stage, as a popular figure. That night people crowded around to take care of him. But in the end the three young men managed to take control of his unconscious body. Herded along by the trio, he was brought to the house of the maid who had been waiting all the while, weeping with shame. And the next day all of the newspapers in the entire country carried this story: Tuan Kariumun fainted on stage. His Excellency has been working too hard in

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recent days. (Perhaps this report was why, some time later, Mas Kariumun received a medal of honor from the government.) And now, and forever more, Mas Kariumun refuses to live as a non-official person, non-visible, and non-popular. He prefers to sit enthroned atop the official world, the public world, the world of popularity—because this, for him, is the safest way in this world and in the hereafter. 1

Pentjak—virtual synonym of silat; traditional martial arts. 2 In Hindu mythology Yama is the god of death and judge in the underworld. In the naturalized pre-Islamic traditions of the Javanese, Sundanese, and Balinese, he appears in much the same roles. ^ Formateur (Dutch)—an institution borrowed by Indonesia during the liberal-democratic 1950s from Dutch parliamentary practice. Aformateur is a respected senior politician given the task of brokering a coalition government between leaders of various political parties. Usually, he does not himself join such a government. * Muslim men are forbidden to marry (let alone have extramarital relations with) women within specified degrees of consanguinity (muhrim). 5 Indonesia held its first parliamentary elections in September 1955. These were followed in December with elections for a Constituent Assembly tasked with drawing up a new constitution. This story, which is undated, is therefore likely to have been written early in 1956. 6 Golok—a type of indigenous machete.

XII. MRS. VETERINARY DOCTOR SUHARKO One day, a friend of mine invited me to go with him to look at a 1952-model 150 cc. Express motorcycle that he wanted to buy off a friend of his. "Come and help me check it out," he said. So the two of us set off for the friend's house. The motorcycle seemed still in good condition, and the price wasn't bad either—5,000 rupiah. When the paperwork had been completed, my friend's friend said, "Watch out! In the next few days, you'll be getting a visit from Mrs. Veterinary Doctor Suharko!"1 "What about?" "This motorcycle. Have you really never heard that terrible name? She'll come around and ask you for it. She'll sign an IOU, and ask you for a bill of transfer. It used to be hers. But be sure you don't do as she asks." "Why does she have to ask for it back and sign me an IOU?" "It's like this. You'll never get the motorcycle back, and she'll never deliver on the IOU." And with evident pleasure my friend's friend began his story: "I know Veterinary Doctor Suharko. He's got three kids. The eldest, Jan, is now eighteen. Next year, he'll be enrolling at the Faculty of Economics. There's no need to mention the others, as they're not important in the story of this 150-cc. Express."

Some months after completing his studies, Suharko opened his own practice. It turned out that he dearly loved his work as a veterinarian. In return, his work brought him many rewards, many passions, many loves, and many other pleasures. Within months he'd become the veterinarian for five out-of-town dairies and a dogbreeding business—all of them owned by foreigners. One of the enterprises provided him with a portion of unsullied love from a young Eurasian girl, the offspring of a Dutchman by his maid. The pair got married and were blessed with the three children mentioned earlier. As it turned out, Corry proved to be a hardworking wife and a devoted farmer, faithful to her husband, skilled in catering to his wants, as well as shrewd and thrifty in using his money. By the time Jan was born, the family had already managed to buy a Morris.2 Subsequently they acquired a beautiful house in the Menteng area. Every afternoon swarms of Dutch visitors came to the good veterinarian to have their pets inspected and treated. He drew the line only at monkeys: for one day a German man had brought in a female gibbon which had repeatedly bitten his thumb while he was inspecting her and then leaped up and embraced her owner with piercing shrieks. In short, Veterinary Doctor Suharko's earnings flowed in steadily and undisturbed. And not merely his earnings. There were plenty of Dutch married women who brought in their animals simply as pretexts.

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In a word, the earnings of the family of Veterinary Doctor Suharko flowed continuously, without a break. Their furniture was ultra-modern, ultra-luxurious, and in the latest style. Cony knew how to pick things with simple lines, lines with a classical feel to them, like the contours of her own body. Then all kinds of disasters happened: the Japanese occupation, the Revolution, the British occupation, the Dutch occupation—all times in which the bourgeoisie were more concerned with the well-being of their own bodies than with that of their pets. This period, in which the world of the foreign bourgeoisie shriveled up, also shriveled the standard of living of the Suharko family. Short though it was, it proved too long for Corry. During that time she had become too old for it, and so she died, leaving behind her husband and her three children. Nor did the first years of Independence bring much benefit to Veterinary Doctor Suharko. Yet these times, with all their growing difficulties, afforded Suharko beautiful inward memories of his late wife, evoked both in the traces of her handiwork and in the surviving objects she had picked out for their home: the dresser, the sitje? the grandfather clock, the dining-room table, the Philips drawingroom radio and pick-up, the desks, the cabinets, the earthenware and porcelain vases from Italy and Czechoslovakia, the curtains from the textile mills of Egypt, the leather benches from Morocco, the Japanese hanging scrolls, and the Chinese embroideries. Each object that his wife had bought seemed to say to him: Am I not Cony's choice? And didn't Corry love me well? Each became a place for storing up all his good memories. Long after Cony's death, they continued to be cherished. Even in difficult times, not one of them was ever sold. All this, too, was thanks to Cony's prudent care. More important than these objects, however, was their eldest son: Jan. His features were so exactly like his mother's—and his manner and conduct no less so. Sometimes, in his relationship with Jan, Suharko forgot that Jan was his son. He carried with him his mother's aura of happiness. With Cony's death, Indonesian bourgeois values developed apace, without providing any blessings to society. There was little enough work that required his services as a veterinarian in private practice. It was not only that he had aged and was no longer capable of swift and energetic movement: in addition, the condition of society had not yet achieved its set and stable form. In the old days, the Western colonialists and bourgeoisie had always had hobbies to refresh their spirit; above all, their pets. But the national colonialists and bourgeoisie much preferred to immortalize their money in villas, land, and cars; and as hobbies they took human beings as pets—with all risks borne by the candidate for petdom. By sheer chance, he managed, after Independence, to win a good position in a certain government department. A bit later on, he also became active in politics. Finally, he won full control of his department. But in the midst of all of these public activities, his heart grew more and more lonely—above all when he was by himself at home, with the children off to school or at play, and his sole companions were the furnishings that Corry had left behind. And so one day he decided to visit his mother in Solo. Naturally enough, he took his three children along with him. Since converting to Christianity, he'd never dared to face his parents. Indeed, when his father died, he hadn't had the courage to do more than send some money. Even with respect to his mother, he couldn't bring himself to do more than mail a postal order every month.

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Meet her face to face? He really didn't have the nerve. He was too afraid of breaking his mother's heart in her very presence. But now he had become old. He lived only in his memories. And he clung to each memory of his youth for which he could still grope, to prevent them from disappearing once more: All those passions on plantations out of town! With so many girls! With those clients who brought him their dogs! He realized, of course, that Cony was fully aware of these goings-on, but kept her silence. Cony herself had once said: No matter how you look at it, men will always be men—even if you give them a cartful of morality and religion every day. In Solo, his mother, who was now well past old age, also lived in her memories— an imaginary world in which her children were shaped according to her wishes, still fresh, though reality had made a mockery of them. The young virgin whom she had once prepared to become her daughter-in-law had long since died, leaving a young virgin daughter behind. And the chickens she had nurtured for Veterinary Doctor Suharko's wedding had by now probably multiplied a hundredfold, and thronged the yard behind her house. Half the chicks died each season, when pseudo-plague struck.4 The old woman greeted her aging son with a heart filled with suspicion. And her son himself much preferred to live within the splendor of his memories than to deal with his mother's suspicions. Corry the incomparable! "Lasmi's dead, 'Ko," said his mother. "Her daughter often comes by. She just got back from Europe two months ago. She's been with her father, 'Ko, working at our embassy there in Europe." Suharko had long since lost interest in petty matters of this kind. So his acquaintance with Kiki, the child of the girl who was once to have been his wife, seemed something of no consequence. But the confined atmosphere of his provincial home forced him, in spite of himself, to pay some attention to various trivialities. Gradually he began to notice Kiki—a modern girl, with her hair done up in a ponytail. Little by little—and of course done without being aware of it—he came under the spell of Kiki's energy, youth, grace, and liveliness. The more the family went on excursions out of town with Kiki, the more it became clear to him that this girl just back from Europe resembled Corry in various ways. On one excursion to the mountains, he laid his hand as if by accident on the shoulder of the girl who had afforded him a bit of vital energy. Kiki did not resist. And so, timidly, he kissed the girl. Once again, Kiki did not resist. Out of this came love—which is the same everywhere in the world. Out of this came a life-giving spirit between the love-partners. A few weeks later, the pair became newlyweds and moved to Djakarta. Some months after the wedding, Suharko came to realize that little Kiki was freer, more energetic, and more lively than he had originally observed and judged. His long, slow-moving life became vigorous, energetic, and lively. He noticed how it took little Kiki only a moment to captivate people's hearts with her free ways, her energy, her liveliness. If his house had once been a kind of besieged fortress, now it was kind of an open field—visitors! Nonstop. And Veterinary Doctor Suharko began to feel worn out at the sight of all of these motley visitors. But little Kiki needed to let her energy, her freedom, and her liveliness flow out to everyone within range. By now Veterinary Doctor Suharko's

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house had become a lodging-place for hearts young and old who suffered the pangs of loneliness in the midst of the uneasy city of Djakarta. The result was that Suharko was driven to the margin of his own household. And he became feeble again—feebler than ever. And he became lonely again—more lonely than ever. By now Veterinary Doctor Suharko had no more need of Kiki. All he needed was the integrity of his memories of days gone by. Frequently he would gaze at Jan in silence. Kiki meanwhile had grown into a mature woman. And Suharko couldn't have cared less. In a short space of time Kiki had "modernized/' as she and her set put it, the entire household, and its atmosphere as well. She rearranged the furniture along the lines suggested by the latest women's magazines. The first thing to go was the grandfather clock, which upset her every night with its regular disturbing of her imaginings. She sold it, and bought in its stead a table clock of the latest design. Suharko was naturally taken aback at first to find an object in which Cony had taken such pride sold off without his permission. But he said nothing. With the money she had saved up bit by bit Kiki bought decorations for the house which felt very alien to her husband: wire furnishings and maquettes made of clay, velvet, and rice-straw. With every day that passed, the realm of Suharko's memories grew more tightly besieged. Each one of Kiki's acts lopped another piece off the world of his memories. "It's more practical," Kiki would always say, "more modern, and cheaper, too." In time, the cabinets, with their classical lines and shape, flew away. In their place came cabinets trimmed with steel-and-chrome tubing. The Philips drawingroom radio, now obsolete and in its dotage, sailed off too, to be replaced by a Grundig stereo. A tape-recorder, used only five times, lay sprawled on display in the corner cabinet. Cony's small, unpretentious piano flew away too. "What do we need a piano for?" she said to Harko one evening. "You don't play yourself, mas, and neither do the children. Anyway, I don't like the piano—or chamber music for that matter. A full orchestra's much better—and that's all it was, one little piano!" In its place there appeared a 150-cc. Express motorcycle. "Do look, masl Doesn't the tank look elegant? How stupid people are to buy Puches—they're just like our hobby-horses."5 And on this motorcycle Kiki went roaming every day: to buy flowers or sate, to go shopping in Pasar Baru, or to go to the movies. On the 150-cc. Express she felt herself an advanced, modern woman, and: eye-catching to the men. She enjoyed catching men's eyes. "This way, mas, I don't need to bother you by asking to bonow the car." In the course of all this, the memory-world of Veterinary Doctor Suharko was destroyed, to become no less late than the late Cony herself. With each day Cony became more a blur, looming up and disappearing unpredictably. And he observed that his own children were increasingly becoming strangers in their own home, shoved aside by visitors who, in their loneliness, longed to taste Kiki's energy, freedom, and liveliness.

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One day, when Suharko came back from inspecting an epidemic of foot-andmouth disease that was ravaging the countryside, and rain had fallen unexpectedly, he discovered Kiki entertaining a guest—a young lodger from the house next door. What's he doing here? And why him? And all the rest of them? They're surely not here to see me? These questions brought Suharko face to face with an accusation he had never before experienced: You're jealous! Jealous! A few hours later, Kiki said to him: "Mas, I'm off. I want to trade this motorcycle in for a better one." And the 150-cc. Express put-putted in the yard, then roared off, to be swallowed up in Djakarta's night traffic. At two o'clock in the morning, Kiki returned. With the 150-cc. Express. Suharko himself got up to let her in. The old man felt that he had no choice but to let her go her way. He had enjoyed Kiki's youth. Didn't she too have the right to enjoy her own youth? That night he couldn't sleep a wink. Kiki, however, sank into a deep, contented slumber. Suharko observed—now for the first time!— Kiki sprawled on her back beside him: her eyes partly open, her mouth agape, the points of her teeth in a horrifying row, and the sharp curve of her upward-pointing lips. He felt himself couched beside a lioness. He felt himself couched beside a crocodile. He felt himself couched with a creature that made his flesh crawl. He sprang out of bed, whispering to himself: "I'd never have guessed that a human being could be so like an animal!"6 Slowly he walked out to the front yard, sat down in a garden chair, and reflected on his children's future—reflected too on Cony, who had brought with her a farmlike atmosphere. Yet now the turkey-coops behind the house had been eliminated to make way for a badminton court. And the low console-wall, which Cony had once decorated with artificial flowers, and where the family had been accustomed to take the air while watching the passing traffic, was now cluttered with a glass tank filled with ornamental fish: goldfish, spadefish, moonfish, eels, and starfish. Usually by five in the morning his eldest child, Jan, was already up and doing his exercises. Yes. He heard the side door being opened. He heard his son come out. And he heard the boy stumble and fall, colliding with something hard. He saw his son sprawled unconscious beneath the 150-cc. Express, his forehead split open by the rim of the foot-rest. The blood gushed out without stopping. Suharko dragged Jan to a sofa, laid him out on it, and began to treat him. When Kiki awoke and saw her stepson swathed in bandages, and the pillows and cover of the sofa drenched with blood, annoyance etched itself clearly on her face. "Why let the blood dribble all over the sofa? Why not on the floor?" For the first time in her married life Kiki was answered with a broom-blow to her face. And Suharko roared: "Get rid of that Express! If you won't do it, 111 throw it out myself!" From then on the 150-cc. Express stayed put beside the house, with oil oozing out around it. And every time Suharko returned from work and saw the motorcycle still there, he struck his wife with the broomstick. For a whole week, he continued to strike Kiki in the face. Meantime, Jan was scarred for life. The relationship between Kiki and Suharko was like that between goat and dealer. Of course, Kiki eventually asked for a divorce.

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"Of course," said Suharko, "and take all these modern things with you. But you've got to return all of Cony's furniture. Take all the money there is and get going."

After that day Kiki left her house and husband. She'd hunt for the things she'd once sold. And with each one she retrieved, she'd provide an IOU in the name of Veterinary Doctor Suharko. Then she'd sell what she'd retrieved to someone else. And so on, and so on. Only one thing she wouldn't sell: the 150-cc. Express. But in the end that was sold, too. I was the first to buy it. But I knew her methods only too well. So I refused her IOU. "Of course your story isn't all true?" said my friend to his friend. "Of course not. Part of it, of course, is my own fantasy." "And what's the point of the fantasy?" "So you can get a clearer picture. " With that we went home. I sat behind my friend on the motorcycle he had just bought.

And in fact, a month later, my friend received a visit from the woman who went by the name Kiki in my friend's story. In floods of tears she detailed the torments of her domestic life. She asked for the return of the 150-cc. Express since her husband demanded it. And she was afraid of her husband. In that moment my friend felt compelled not to believe the story of my friend's friend. Tears were sufficient evidence of sincerity. He turned over the motorcycle and accepted the IOU. Since that day, the woman whom my friend's friend called Kiki has never showed her nose again. 1 Indonesians took up the Dutch practice of referring politely to the wives of professional men in this manner. In the original this title is Njonja Doktor Hewan Suharko (Doktor Hewan means, literally, animal doctor). 2 An English make of car then popular internationally. 3 Sitje (Dutch)—in those days a living-room set consisting of a table, a sofa, and three chairs. 4 In the original, the phrase is djaran kepang, a Javanese-language version of kuda lumping and kuda kepang explained in "Gambir," note 16. 5 hobby-horses—see "Gambir," note 16. 6 The term used is hewan, referring to a domesticated animal; here it is an ironical recuperation of Suharko's own specialty as doktor hewan.

XIII. KETJAPI (DJAKARTA, 1956)

I believe that every person has an interpretation for his own life. Even crazy people. Each direction we take depends more or less upon these interpretations. And now I would like to recount the tale of a man's life, a man who, because of a misinterpretation, fell into my hands to become the hero of my story. I first met him under the eaves of a house I wanted to rent. He was wearing black shorts. His back was hunched and his ribs stuck out like rows of crabs' legs. His red eyes longed for a good night's rest, but the plaintive tone in his voice begged for attention. "Even though I am just one of the little people," he said with pride, "God has granted me the good grace to meet a number of our great leaders: the president, ministers, high-ranking officials." And again his ribs undulated, really and truly like a crawling crab, and his reddish eyes blazed: he solicited my absolute attention, and that attention I gave him. "So what is it that you do?" I asked. It turned out he was a debt-collector for a doctor in private practice. Later, we became neighbors. Over time I came to realize that his life was a long chain of fears: of demons, of the police, of sorcerers, of rich people, of his own bitterness at not hitting it big on the black market, of his wife's nagging, and a whole lot more that could be linked to the chain. It was as though each step forward was two steps back—paralyzing! And what he sought were fragments to hold on to: the turtledove he sprayed with his own spit each Friday,1 and the spontaneous expression of his sexual fantasies: so beautiful, so fair (when a woman happened by)! And his red eyes would flash demonically. And when Saturday night arrived, he'd take his ketjapi from its place and, alone, begin to play sesindiran.2 Occasionally another neighbor would bring a violin and their playing would grow quite lively. The sesindiran would quickly be replaced by tembang sekar? Then the aura of his homeland—the Land of Valleys and Mountains—would descend from the heavens.4 The faint sound of the singing would suddenly change into something lively and passionate. Ah dreams! Ah reality! The two coexist within each person. The two are constantly at war. That's why no one can escape them. This battle was evidently too violent for his body; his eyes always red, his ribs looking like crab's legs. Then there were his little projects: like polishing his French bike with a wet rag until it shone—he'd shoulder this two-wheeler over every mud puddle that he encountered. Or smoothing down the dirt floor of the house he rented from Raden Marbaut—the house that he'd patched up with discarded materials he'd collected on his daily rounds: paint, two-by-fours, screens, shards of broken

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windshield to make skylights. Or selecting nice spots to place twigs where his turtledove might perch. Or making a coop for his prized chickens that laid eggs every day. Over time I learned fragments of his life story. He was born and raised and married in his homeland: the Land of Valleys and Mountains, where at any moment you can hear the sound of a ketjapi blowing in the humid wind, where at any moment you can doze off peacefully because the soil always bestows its grace upon the crops. He was an industrious farmer. That was before, fourteen or fifteen years ago. But his plot of land was too small and the sawah couldn't bring prosperity all year round. He had no other means, except to get a meal while working on community projects like building a neighbor's house, or angling for catfish in the river. He was miserably poor, and he felt bitter that this poverty isolated him from other people. Everyone feels that they have the right to govern themselves. And he did not like to stay at home. And when he was at home, even his wife did not want him near her. That cursed wife! he would grumble to each fish he caught, to each gust of wind, to the top of the bamboo clumps under which he was fishing, to the murky water churned up by the startled fish, to anyone he knew who was willing to listen to his complaints. To everyone—to everything. With but one exception: his wife herself. He believed that Si Tjitjih was the mastermind behind all of the unhappiness of his life. He wanted to rebel against her. But the justification for it was not there! He too needed a justification, just like the diplomats, just like the politicians, and the critics. But with time, his accusations took shape: it was Tjitjih's fault that he was so poor. That good-for-nothing wife! And in time that shape was realized as he surrendered to his sexual fantasies: one man and all the long-legged, light-skinned women! How delicious: djankungkonengl5 Then one day she caught his attention: a young virgin! And this virgin was willing to accommodate his dreams and transform them into reality. A true virgin! Truly djankungkonengl And then his whole manner began to change. This was his first victory. His first victory as a man! And it was a victory he could really and truly feel. His marriage to Tjitjih broke up. His eldest daughter who attended SGB and had a civil service scholarship, stayed with her mother.6 His son went with him. With his clothing, his son, and si djankungkoneng, he set off for the land of runaways. Djakarta! Djakarta! Djakarta, a place for all runaways. Such was one fragment of his history that I came to know. And in Djakarta he embarked upon a new history, and a new life, the saga of his escape. An escapee, too, from his old livelihood: no land, no fishing-rod. He became a transplanted citizen in this new region. He immediately rented a shanty from Raden Marbout. And this raden also lent him what he needed for sleeping and for the kitchen.7 Luck was with him, for that same day he found a job: in a government printing-house. His wages? A week's work was enough to pay the rent on his shanty. A livelihood that brought no satisfaction! When the rains came, water that overflowed from higher ground spilled down into the house. And because the back wall of the house was actually part of a small hill that had been cut open, and because the side of this small hill formed a big drain, the back wall of the house automatically became a nesting-place for field-mice. And when it rained heavily, mud flowed through the holes made by these mice. The main room, which he'd designated as the bedroom, the kitchen and the living-room, had once been the

Ketjapi139 neighborhood outhouse, but was later buried under piles of garbage. But as the fumes from the waste evaporated, and the trash began to decompose into dirt, the floor of this room sank down, creating a large hole. Every day he brought a load of dirt to fill the hole, but a month later it had still not disappeared. In fact, when the rain fell in that area, the hole became something that was no less significant than si djankungkoneng. The result of all this was quite predictable: of course si djankungkoneng complained day in, day out. And his son wandered the city looking for scraps of this and that. After a time he began to daydream about his former life. And at one critical moment he poured out the contents of his heart to me: "When I think about it, my life before was not so bad. It is my life now that is hell/' And I knew for a fact that this runaway family only ate once a day. It's quite possible that, before she married, si djankungkoneng had received extravagant promises. Quite possible. For now, as threatening clouds announced themselves on darkening skies, she could be heard praying long and loud. And when thunder began to rumble in the evening, I could hear her interspersing her high-pitched chanting of Koranic verses with curses on her husband. Because: his promises to keep her company had never been kept. When her man went to work, she grew lonely and began to grumble angrily to herself. To fill up her loneliness, she adopted a child. But that only resulted in the division of their food into even smaller portions. The days of loneliness and want did not end. Eventually si djankungkoneng grew furious. She did not hesitate to castigate her husband in front of everyone. And her man had only one strategy in such a situation: he would quickly put on his pants and run away, run away to wherever, until si djankungkoneng''s anger subsided and she was willing to take him back. He would come in at some late hour and sleep in the chair. The more she chastised him, the more often he would run away. In the end it became so habitual that it even gave him a little satisfaction. By now he was at home only an hour or two in twenty-four. For a while he forced himself to work the black market here and there. Sometimes he was also swindled. But in one stroke of luck, he was able to buy the French bike. Another day, it was a bed with a mattress. A mattress! A real mattress! Not a bamboo mat. Over time he was able to build up something of a normal household. But the salary he received from the government printing-house did not likewise build up. He was a typesetter—a typesetter who could not understand the letters that he set. This was the agent causing the paltriness of his salary. This paltriness led him to change jobs. Now he was a debt-collector. With a five percent commission. He would only work one week a month. His new family began to prosper. But his eyes only sank further inward. He suffered a feeling of great longing. It was this matter that he discussed with me one particularly hot afternoon: "Although life was more difficult, actually, I was happier before. A family that was whole. A heart, a mind that were whole. The rest was actually just inconvenience. And now? So what if good fortune pours down from the sky, my family is broken apart. My mind, broken. My body is here, my heart goes there ... wherever/' In the several years of their marriage, si djankungkoneng was unable to get pregnant. With each passing day her stomach grew rounder—but with fat. And because she did not feel that her position as a wife was secure, and because her husband was only home for two hours each day, and because she did not feel like a

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genuine mother since she had never given birth, there was little else for her to do except lie despondently on the bed with the real mattress. Eventually her body became downright plump. That alone was enough to poison her husband's dreams. "What can you expect from a body as fat as that!" he said this to me as he watched someone draining the cesspool and glanced simultaneously at the door to the communal toilet where his wife was doing her business. "No children, no happiness, no pleasure. The only thing I get from her is the stink of monkeys! To the devil with her!" Eventually his pleasure in avoiding his own household faded as well. Most likely because, as time went on, his body grew weak from it. Often he appeared moping about in the covered passageway by his house. Now he often slept at home. Or played with his chickens early in the morning. But most of the time he plucked his home-made ketjapi. The vibration of the strings became the vehicle by which he was transported back to the Land of Valleys and Mountains. This was evident from the rhythm of his plucking, from the style of his singing, and from the particular quality of sound made by the ketjapi strings themselves. And if a woman happened by, and he saw her, and especially if she was a young virgin, he would immediately break into his song with a catcall: Aih,aih,kapttetengke...s And he paid no attention to his wife. He answered only to his own passions, to his attempts to release himself from the burden in his heart. Of course his wife understood none of this, because it was her first marriage. Because she had never had children, because she had never been left by a man. The marriage of a virgin girl and boy is what binds the heart through each divorce, it is this bond that each man and woman always remembers. At first the catcalling annoyed his wife—she considered it extremely crude. But her husband paid no attention. The tension within his soul grew greater with time, for, as each day passed, his wife became less and less si djankungkoneng. And increasingly she showed the signs of a heart burdened by loneliness. "It's not her fault," he told me once, unexpectedly, "that she doesn't have a child. At least she really tried to get pregnant. If it doesn't happen, it's out of our human hands, no?" Our hero withered away with each passing day. In fact, he even said one day that he would like just once to get sick, really sick, and then, he imagined, there would be a hand that would caress him with true love and kindness, and a voice that would whisper in his ear, wishing him quickly well again. But he did not get sick. What's more, his son, whom he had brought with him to Djakarta, grew increasingly distant from this heart so in need of sympathy. He longed for the Land of Valleys and Mountains, for his little sawah, for his daughter, for the happier times which he himself had destroyed. Whereas the son he had brought with him— "He's not like me!" he said. "Who knows who he takes after? He doesn't understand his responsibilities to the household, although I know he doesn't like staying home with his stepmother." The orphan his wife had taken in grew bigger every day and had clearly become a source of competition for her stepson. "She loves a child whose parents are unknown," grumbled our hero, when feeling jealous of the adopted baby, "whereas my own son, who knows his mother and father, is neglected."

Ketjapi141 And from that time on, both our hero and his son found it increasingly unpleasant to stay in the house. And the child was much too fond of crying. His wife was fond of spoiling it. And the child grew bigger every day, more spoiled every day, especially when it came to understand the utility of crying. And because the child was a boy, our hero's grumbling was, this time: A two-bit kid!9 And the neighbors exacerbated the grumbling of his heart, because they could not bear to listen to the crying all night. A two-bit kid!

It seemed like a long time—more than a year and a half—that our hero's ketjajri had remained mute, while he himself passed the age of forty. A question often arose in my heart: there are millions of men like him, energetic, and not without skills, who have passed the age of forty, but what have they got from their lives? Anything to give them something to hold onto for their remaining years as they set forth into impending old age? And naturally, this problem grew to be both a problem and a mirror in which I could see myself. Ten more years, and forty would become fifty. How unsettling it is to see that, in all this time, and as one's energy dwindles, there is yet to appear something to serve as a support. This was his situation. And my situation as well. We lived under the same unsettling and anxious conditions, facing the future in a weakening body. It was precisely for this reason that our hero captivated my attention. Behind all of his actions, even behind the ready laughter, there was something unstable, something that indicated a suppressed angst in the face of his surroundings, his life, and himself, and yet there was a strong possibility that he was completely unaware of it. Once, when his parents passed away, the whole family traveled back to the village, to the Land of Valleys and Mountains. Not for long though! Several days later the family returned home to our neighborhood. Much talk and news flowed copiously from his mouth. There was only one thing that was not forthcoming— exactly that which I had expected to hear: the turmoil of his own heart. Perhaps he had constructed, in his innermost being, a pseudo-resolution, or, proper resolution, or the cheap way out, i.e.: to pray for the death of the wife he no longer desired. Or: for liberation through his own death. Or: for God so to conjure the world that everything in it would be as he wanted it. But this is clearly not possible, because the world develops in its own way, and the human heart is too ravenous in its desires. The world is not only poor, but also stingy, cruel, while the human heart is extremely greedy and wants to control everything. So? So our hero remained stooped and red-eyed. A few months after his return from his homeland he could be heard playing the ketjapi again, when the guest he had been waiting for did not show up, that is, the guest who was to perform the recitation for the souls of his late parents. He still did not realize that in Djakarta the souls that leave this fleeting world do not receive the same attention or respect as those who leave from the Land of Valleys and

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Mountains. He was extremely disappointed. This could be heard in the plucking of the ketjapi strings. And in his slow, undulating voice. I heard his wife call out to him. But he did not hear the call. He continued plucking and singing in the dark of night, on his verandah, on a pandanus mat that he had just bought especially for the recitation. Didieu gunung diditu gunung Lamun djurang mah mana djalanana.lQ I no longer remember the rest because I did not understand the regional language that he used. But from the rhythm of the singing I could tell it was a passionate lament. He sang the feelings of his heart: an awareness of his misguided interpretation of his own life. Once, he had thought that his wife was the mastermind behind the destruction of his household; but now he knew that it was actually he himself who had failed to create a happy atmosphere in which to live. Here too! His longing now reached its peak: a longing for a happy atmosphere in which to live. Late into the night, this rhythm of regret at the choice, which was the result of a misinterpretation, continued in a plaintive whisper. So sentimental! Kalau mail apakah mail Tjibeber punja tjerita.11 At three in the morning, I could still hear his melancholy pleading. But his voice, full of sleepiness, reverberated deeply: tears made into song. And I have now resolved it for myself: his heart, his soul, his life, his future have all become tattered and full of holes. 1

Indonesian aficionados of caged turtledoves (perkutut) often believe that by inserting their own spit into their birds' mouths they will increase the beauty of the doves' singing and their attachment to their owners. 2 Ketjapi—the zither-like instrument which makes the sound of Sundanese music so distinctive and beloved. Sesindiran— a playful, sexually teasing, lively type of song. 3 Tembang sekar— a more relaxed, drawn-out type of vocal composition. 4 The reference is to the Priangan highlands in West Java, homeland of the Sundanese. 5 Djankungkoneng (Sundanese)—tall, beautiful, fair-skinned woman. 6 SGB—Sekolah Guru Bawah (Junior Normal School). 7 Raden—title for the lowest rank of Javanese aristocrat, often used by people with no real claim to it. 8 These Sundanese words mean roughly: Watch out! Watch out! [If you scorn me] eventually you'll fall to my love-magic! 9 Literally, three-fep&ig kid. The long-obsolete piece of money was a copper coin worth onetwo-hundredth of a rupiah—the least valuable of all coins of that period. 10 These Sundanese lines, which can be interpreted as sexual innuendo, may be roughly translated as: Here a mountain, there a mountain / But where is the valley path between them ...?

11

Here the lyric is in Indonesian, and has this enigmatic meaning: If one dies, does one truly die? Tjibeber has a story....

GLOSSARY alu: a rice pestle used to pound rice, corn, barley, and other grains into flour. Astagafirullah: "May Allah forgive his servant!" An exclamation of shock or dismay, baba: father in Djakarta Malay, bale (balai): a platform or backless couch, made of bamboo or wood, for sitting and/or sleeping. bantji: a male transvestite, hermaphrodite, effeminate boy or man, homosexual, betjak: trishaw, pedaled by human labor. Bismillah: "In the name of Allah," the invocation that precedes each chapter of the Koran, bung: colloquial for brother, implying equal status between the speaker and the addressee. Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat (DPR): People's Representative Council, the National Parliament, djago: literally, fighting cock; more generally, a feared and sometimes admired local tough or strongman. Also refers to a champion of the silat martial arts form, djali-djali: a popular song of Old Batavia sung in the krontjong style, djankungkoneng: referring to someone who is long-legged with fair or "yellow" skin. djengkol: a delicious but foul-smelling fruit in the shape of a bean-pod. Djibril: in Islamic theology, Djibril (in Christian terms Gabriel) is the angel who brings each dead person before Allah for judgement, dukun: practitioner of traditional healing arts. Also refers to a specialist in various dealings with the spirit world; dealer of magic and potions. empok: older sister, term of address for older sister or woman older than the speaker, golok: a single-edged knife or machete-like weapon popular in West Java, hadji: man who has made the pilgrimage to Mecca; title for such a man. Idulfitri: feast and celebration that marks the end of Ramadhan, the Islamic fasting month, and is seen as a victory of the will over desire, kafir (Arabic): a non-believer, infidel, kain: piece of fabric, usually made of batik, which is typically wrapped around as a skirt. kak: term of address for older brother or sister, short for kakak. kampung: lower class urban neighborhood; village or rural hamlet, kara leaves: poisonous leaves of a species of peanut vine, kaung: a type of Indonesian cigarette, hand made, rolled in a dried cornhusk. kebaya: a woman's blouse. ketjapi: a zither-like musical instrument used in Sundanese music, keirei (Japanese): a deep ceremonial bow of respect, kommis: a low administrative position, just above clerk.

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krontjong: a style of popular Indonesian music of Portuguese origin, in which lyrics are accompanied by guitar, ukelele, and cello or bass playing a rhumba-like rhythm, krupuk: cracker, usually made of fish or prawn. Dipped in hot oil, krupuk expands into twice or three times its original size, kretek: clove cigarette. kupiah: a small brimless cap worn by Muslims (pitji). lalang: long, slender, wild grass with sharp, serrated edges. Lebaran: the Indonesian-Malay equivalent of Idulfitri. lenong: genre of Javanese improvisational drama, folk theatre frequented by the lower classes. Mak (emak): colloquial word for mother or any older woman, marchaba (Arabic): welcome, mas: polite term of address for elder brother, or for someone of higher status than the speaker. Masjaallah: "Good Lord!"; exclamation of disapproval. Masjumi: Madjlis Sjuro Muslimin Indonesia: a popular, modernist Islamic party prior to 1960. Minzalik: short form of a'udzu billahi minzalik, vernacularized version of an Arabic expression of surprise or alarm (may Allah preserve us!), mobilet: a bicycle that has been customized with a motor. nak: short for "anak," term of address for a child or someone of a younger generation. NICA: Netherlands Indies Civil Administration; war-time civil administrative system set up by the Dutch in 1945. njai: Indonesian woman taken as a concubine/housekeeper for a European man; term of address for woman in this position, njonja: title of respect for married Dutch woman (colonial period); wife, female head of household, "Mrs."; term of address for woman of this position, non, nona: unmarried Dutch girl (colonial period); girl, young woman, term of address for a young woman, oplet: forerunner of today's minibus, pak: short for "Rapak," title for father or older man; term of address for father or older man. paviljun: in Indonesia, a paviljun is a smaller annex to a main house, often rented out. pentjak: an Indonesian term for martial arts, perak: silver; here a slang term for the one-rupiah coin. Pesindo: Pemuda Sosialis Indonesia: Indonesian Socialist Youth, armed youth wing of the revolutionary-era Socialist Party before it split between communists and social democrats. pitji: a rimless velvet cap usually black in color, prijaji (Javanese): originally aristocrats of non-royal lineage; subsequently, in the colonial period, upper- and middle-level civil servants with aristocratic pretensions. Raden: title for the lowest rank of Javanese aristocrat, riba: interest derived from loans, a practice strongly prohibited in the Koran, ringgit: a silver coin worth 2.5 rupiah during the Dutch colonial period, romusha: Indonesians and Europeans rounded up to work as laborers during the Japanese occupation.

Glossary

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rudjak: dish made of slices of unripe fruit seasoned with chili peppers, palm-sugar, and fish-paste, rupiah: Indonesian currency. San: the familiar, shortened form of Hasan (name for a male), santri: pious Muslim male, a student in a religious school, or a graduate from a religious school, sate: skewered meat barbequed over hot coals and eaten with a thick, rich peanut sauce. sawah: wet rice (paddy) fields, selandang: scarf, material draped over shoulder as part of Indonesian style of dress for both men and women, serabi: sweet pancakes made with rice flour. sesindiran: a playful, lively, and often sexually teasing type of song. SGB: "Sekolah Guru Bawah," equivalent of middle school. Si: a neutral honorific. silat: the general term for Malay/Indonesian martial arts, singkong: cassava, sinjo: young European (white) male, sontolojo: expression meaning "absurd" or "ridiculous." tafsir: Koranic exegesis, talen: one-fourth of a rupiah. talkin: Islamic prayer whispered in the ear on the point of death, or recited over the corpse. tembang sekar: relaxed, sometimes melancholy type of vocal composition, tjelana monjet: "monkey pants," referring to a simple one-piece children's pantsuit. tjing: short for entjing, meaning "uncle" and used more generally to refer to any older man. tjir: an exclamation or call meant as a provocation or insult, long: the familiar, shortened form of Otong. totok: pure-blooded Dutch (as opposed to Eurasian); also can refer to recently arrived or pure-blooded Chinese, tuan: title of respect for adult Dutch males (colonial period); male head of household, "master"; term of address for a man in this position, Ustad: term of address for an Islamic teacher, waning: street stand or small restaurant selling food and other goods.