After the Ashes (11 page)

“Niels,” Tante Greet began.

Vader shook his head and held up his hand once more. It was so quiet that I could hear the grandfather clock ticking in the hall. “I suggest a compromise,” he said at last.

I loosened my arms, relaxing a bit. “I'm listening.”

“I will talk with Indah about her concerns. If I can get her to agree, Slamet will be free to visit here as much as he ever did, and you may socialize with one another once more.”

A bubble of hope rose within me, and I clutched my hands together in my lap as if in prayer.

He continued. “But in no way should you interpret my generosity as a condonation of your actions today. You will still be punished, and I will address your punishment in a moment. For now, the terms of this compromise are as follows: You may renew your friendship with Slamet, and in return, you must agree to perform one household task a week for Greet, in addition to the assistance you have recently begun providing her. The task will be one of her choosing.” He glanced at my aunt. “Does that sound reasonable?”

She pursed her lips. “I would prefer that Katrien agree to acquire a new skill. There are so many she ought to know that she has refused to learn.”

New skills? She must be mad. She would have me needlepointing useless sayings on pillow covers in no time. I was certain Vader would take my side, but instead he smiled.

“That will be fine.”

“What?” I could not hide the betrayal I felt.

He shot a sharp look across the table at me. “Katrien, you must also face your punishment. From now on, you will only be permitted to go to the jungle once a week.”

“You can't be serious!”

“I assure you, I am.” He arched his eyebrows. “You may renew your friendship with Slamet and in return you will agree to lessons from your aunt. Unless you would prefer to spend time with Brigitta at the convent. Either way, your punishment stands. Your time in the jungle is now limited to once a week.”

“But that isn't fair!” I cried.

“On the contrary,” he said, “your behavior toward Brigitta this afternoon was rude, pretentious and boorish. And for that you are being disciplined.”

I wanted to run far away. Into the jungle. Perhaps where Slamet was living with his brother.

Oh, Slamet.

If I agreed to this rotten compromise, I could see my friend again. I was certain Vader would be able to convince Indah. After all, she worked for us. But having lessons with Tante Greet? Only being able to explore the jungle once a week?

Furious at Vader for the injustice of his terms, and at Tante Greet for making everything worse, I nodded reluctantly. What else could I do? At least this way, I didn't have to spend any more forced time in Brigitta's presence.

“Good.” Vader returned to his meal. “I will speak with Indah tomorrow, and we will start this new phase on Monday.”

That gave me three whole days to sulk.

My dear Oom Maarten,

I've been punished again for fighting with Brigitta. She is the bane of my existence.

Beginning Monday, I can only go to the jungle once a week. And I have to start learning new skills from Tante Greet, as well. She's already chosen cooking for the first lesson.

Can I come live with you? You would never force me to do anything I didn't want to do. I could take Torben for walks in the park every day—even twice a day. Though I would miss the jungle.

My last visit was cut short. A Javan rhinoceros rumbled across my path. He was the same height as me, and I know I'm lucky he didn't charge me. Thankfully, he was too busy marking his territory. The smell almost made me retch. It was so strong and vile. The rhino lumbered off into the undergrowth, completely ignoring me. Unfortunately, he took the same path I was following. I had no choice but to turn around and come home.

That was yet another unproductive visit to the forest. My last five explorations have been fruitless. I haven't found any stag beetles!

Desperately yours,
Katrien

Three weeks later, Tante Greet stood in my room, staring at my collection of beetles while I hurried to get dressed. The cases covered an entire wall and a good part of another.

“How do you sleep at night with these monstrous bugs hanging on the wall?” she asked.

“Insects,” I corrected her.

She raised her eyebrows at my impertinence.

I decided to change the subject. “Slamet told me yesterday that he's going to bring food to some friends of his this morning, and I'm going with him.”

Tante Greet drew her lips into a tight line, and she made her disapproving click.

“He's bringing food to people! It's charity! Don't you want me to help those less fortunate?”

She closed her eyes for a moment, and I could see a struggle cross her features. “I suppose this is why we relented,” she muttered. She retrieved my hat from its hook and handed it to me. “Please don't make a spectacle of yourself, and be polite to these people.”

“I will.”

“And be back here by midday.”

I waved at her and hurried to find Slamet.

He stood in the side yard, hugging a basket close to his chest. He looked tense, but I ignored that.

“Let's go,” I said, leading the way around the front of the house.

We hadn't gotten far before I saw Brigitta standing by the Ousterhoudts' porch, talking to Mr. Ousterhoudt. I stopped short, and Slamet bumped into me.

“Apologies, Slamet.” I pointed to Brigitta. “I don't want her to see me.”

He nodded and we slowly backed away. Remembering Oom Maarten's latest letter—
Obviously, you did not follow my advice!
—I placed my hand over my nose and mouth.

“They are hibiscus flowers,” I heard Mr. Ousterhoudt saying to Brigitta.

“Would it be possible to obtain a cutting?” she asked, moving to a bright orange bloom. “Perhaps two?”

Slamet and I made our way over to the Great Post Road, which began in Anjer and ended in Panarukan on the other side of Java. I didn't often travel on the road except for the few times my family went to visit the controller of Merak, the town north of Anjer. Although the road went through Batavia, we traveled by ship to the capital.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“To mosque.”

I stopped. “I thought we were going to visit friends of yours.” The mosque was a kilometer north of Anjer along the coast.

“Friends live near mosque.”

“Oh.” We walked on down the road, and I offered to carry the basket. “Do you know them from the mosque?”

He gave me a quizzical look, and I could tell he didn't understand my question. I tried again. “How do you know them? Your friends?”

“They are from same village as Ibu.”

I nodded, and we fell into silence. It had been a long time since I had spent any substantial time with Slamet. Normally, I could be
in his company without saying anything and be perfectly content. But an awkwardness descended on me while we walked. My tongue seemed to grow in my mouth, banging into the back of my teeth. The silence between us stretched. If we didn't begin a conversation soon, I wasn't sure we ever would.

“What was it like? Living in the jungle with your brother?”

“Good. I learn much.”

“Such as?”

He watched a wagon coming down the road. The driver whipped his horses to make them go even faster. Slamet shook his head.

When he still didn't answer me, I bumped his shoulder. “What are you learning?”

“Arabic. The Qu'ran.”

I frowned. If that was all his brother was teaching him, then why did he have to go off into the jungle to learn it? “Vader could have taught you that. He doesn't speak Arabic, but you and he could have learned together.”

“Better to learn from teacher.”

“That's what I mean. Vader could have found one. You could both learn Arabic.”

He didn't say anything.

“How does Raharjo even know Arabic?” I wondered. “He's not in school.”

Slamet turned and glared at me, and there was such anger in his expression that I stepped back. “You do not know. You cannot know. You are Dutch. You do what you want. You are not like us.”

I felt as if the road had suddenly tilted, and I stumbled, almost dropping the basket. He snatched it from me.

“What? Slamet, what do you mean?” Was he saying I did not understand him? Because I was Dutch?

The air around us had changed. It was prickly and sharp, as if lightning were about to strike.

“You Dutch,” Slamet said. “You treat us like dogs.” A rough tone had filled his voice, making him sound angrier than I had ever
heard him. He had never spoken to me like this. I stared at him in shock.

“Do you truly believe that?” I asked, bewildered. “That I treat you like a dog?”

He slumped. “Not you.”

“Then why would you say such a thing to me?”

He shook his head and gazed down the road. His face was set hard like stone. I didn't even see him blink.

“Slamet?” I reached for his hand, but he jumped as if bitten by a Malayan pit viper.

“Raharjo says this.”

His brother. Why would Raharjo say these things about the Dutch, about me? He didn't even know me. He sounded as awful as Brigitta.

“What else does your brother say?” I asked.

“He teaches me and tells stories.”

“What kind of stories?” I thought of
Butho Ijo
, and the Dutch legends that my mother used to tell me, and the fairy tales I read when I was younger.

Slamet wandered off the side of the road toward the beach. He stared into the distance, his black hair glowing in the bright light. I walked over to him, and he squatted down and drew a pattern of squiggles and dots in the sand. “Bad ones.” He stood and erased the pattern with his bare foot, his toes just darker than the wet sand.

His eyes were fixed on the ground. I ducked my head and waved a hand in front of his face. “How bad?”

With a wry smile that showed off the dimple in his cheek, he looked at me and said, “Bad. How much trouble Dutch are.”

I waved my hands dismissively. “Not all of us. Only the girls Tante Greet wants me to be like.”

He turned back to the road, no longer smiling. More wagons and people moved along the Great Post Road. Slamet stopped and watched them, his whole body tensing with anger. His hand
moved toward his side, and I noticed a
kris
sitting at the waist of his sarong. Slamet had never worn the traditional Javanese dagger before. Where had he gotten that? The air turned prickly again, and I pushed up my spectacles.

“Slamet?” I asked. “Is something wrong?”

“Colonial overlords,” he muttered.

“I beg your pardon?” The term sounded so strange coming from Slamet's mouth. I myself had not heard it in years, not since the days when the adults would speak of the fighting in Aceh while Brigitta and I played. The natives there had always been fighting the Dutch, but surely Slamet could not feel that way here in Anjer—could he? What had Raharjo told him? What was I missing? I looked around at the people Slamet was watching. Women in colorful dresses and men in pale-colored suits strolled nearby. “They look like birds,” I said. “Don't you think so?”

“They are pain.”

“Pain?” I let out a laugh. “They're not hurting anyone.”

He flushed. “Pain is not word.”

I thought for a moment. “Trouble? Annoyance? Problem?”

“Problem.
Ya
.” He nodded. “They are problem.”

“But they're not doing anything. They're walking, like us.”

“They are problem,” he repeated.

With a soft laugh, I asked, “How?”

“They are Dutch.”

Taken aback by his response—and the tone in his voice—I stammered, “A-are you serious?”

He kicked at the ground. The silence between us grew once more, and I suddenly felt a barrier forming in our friendship. I had to handle this carefully so no further distance was created. I needed Slamet. He was my friend.

I tried to lighten the mood, saying, “Whatever you have in that basket smells delicious.”

His eyes darted from person to person, never resting on anyone for longer than a few seconds.

Poking his shoulder repeatedly until he turned to me, I gave him a sunny smile. “What's in the basket?”

“
Pisang goreng
,” he said, handing it back to me.

“They smell wonderful.”

“We made them at our home. Not your home.”

My jaw dropped. “I never suggested—It wouldn't matter to me if—” I rubbed my eyes in frustration. “What difference does it make where you made the fritters?”

He scratched his arm. “We do not use Dutch food.”

“Oh.” I didn't know why he was telling me this. “Is that good?”

“We use our food.”

What he was trying to say finally made sense. “You mean you only used what you could share. Your own charity.”

He smiled and nodded.
“Ya.”

I fell silent, unsure what else to say. We walked farther out of Anjer. Fewer people were on the road, and the jungle crept closer to the sea. Waves washed onshore, and seabirds screeched their harsh cries before diving under the surface for fish.

We reached the mosque, which sat in an open stretch of land facing the beach. Surrounded by palm trees, the wooden structure had a porch around the entire building and two main doors. It looked comfortable and settled, like it had been there for many years.

“What is it like inside?” I asked as we walked past the building.

My question seemed to calm Slamet. “Peaceful.”

I never felt that at mass. At mass I felt nervous. Uptight. Uncomfortable. Judged. Peaceful was what I felt in the jungle. “It's lovely.”

“It is best place. I learn many things.”