Child of All Nations (24 page)

I went on towards the bamboo house. It was not only from Europe that so much could be learned! This modern age had provided many breasts to suckle me—from among the Natives themselves, from Japan, China, America, India, Arabia, from all the peoples on the face of this earth. They were the mother wolves that gave me life to become a builder of Rome! Is it true you will build a Rome? Yes, I answered myself. How? I don’t know. In humility, I realized I am a child of all nations, of all ages, past and present. Place and time of birth, parents, all are coincidence: such things are not sacred.

Back in the house I went on with my writing. But the first sentence was not what I had been thinking as I walked back: “And evil too came from all nations, from all ages.”

I wrote and wrote until all that I wished to write was finished. I flopped my body down upon the bamboo sleeping bench and fell asleep, forgetting all that had been happening around me.

Who knows how long I slept. Indeed I hadn’t had enough
sleep the night before. I had been overcome by my passion to finish the notes about Surati. Shouting startled me and my eyes flew open, but I still lay there on the divan-bench.

“I only got five coins for the chicken. Not enough to buy any clothes for you, just some pants for your father.”

Realizing that the voice was that of an adult woman, I quickly got up. No doubt it was Trunodongso’s wife, home from the market. Her smallest daughters followed behind. On seeing me Truno’s wife stopped in front of the house, bowed down again and again, then walked off around the side of the house to the back.

It appeared that Piah had begun cooking in the kitchen. I could smell the aroma of frying chicken. All of a sudden my stomach was calling out for food.

Now I could hear Piah speaking in low Javanese to her mama: “When will I get some clothes, Ma?”

I couldn’t hear the answer. I took out the gold pocket watch my mother had given me for a wedding present. It was four o’clock, and my stomach was making wild demands.

Trunodongso came outside to the bench and invited me in to eat. He apologized for not daring to awaken me earlier. Inside there was a woven bamboo mat with the food laid out on it. There was only one plate. The curry was in an earthenware bowl and the rice in a bamboo basket. Ground chili and dried fish lay crushed in the earthen bowl. The stone pestle stood in the bowl on top of the chilied fish.

“Please, Ndoro.”

“Let us eat together, Pak, with all the children and Ma Trunodongso.”

“It’s all right like this, Ndoro; there’s only one plate.”

“Then we can all eat from banana leaves.”

An argument started. Finally Trunodongso gave in. Everybody was mobilized to eat together off banana leaves. More food was brought out from the kitchen. I did not regret doing this, even though I knew it was torture for them to eat with me. They were so afraid of taking any of the chicken, especially the fried chicken. It turned out to be as hard as wood. So then I knew: This family had never cooked chicken before, not even the ones they owned themselves.

Seeing that they were hesitating to start, I finished my meal quickly and went for a stroll outside to get some fresh air.

After dinner the following conversation took place.

“If Bapak worked that land yourself, would you be much better off?”

For the first time Trunodongso laughed. “When my parents were still alive, heaps of paddy surrounded this house. There were many chickens and ducks. A few years before they died, the factory started pressuring them to give over the land. My father refused. Then the village chief came, then his second-in-command. My father still refused. Then the paddy-field water canals were blocked farther up, on factory land. There was no more water. My father—”

“Weren’t the canals built by the farmers themselves? Not the factory?”

“Sure, Ndoro. I myself helped build them. A week it took, I remember it well. At the end of clearing my section of land there was a great pile of fallen leaves. There were many snakes—no less than seven.”

“No one was bitten?”

“Ah, just little lizards really, Ndoro.”

“How much were you paid?”

“Paid? No one paid us.”

He liked to watch me write down his answers. And I was certainly not going to disappoint him. I would pour it all out in the newspapers. I could already guess that there would be a great commotion. Perhaps this man before me now would become the main figure in some great story about the farmers of the sugar-cane regions. He was becoming more and more interesting. The more marks I made on the paper, the more he trusted me, and the easier it became to enter his mind.

I recalled again my grandfather’s warning about people with the name Truno. Such people, my grandfather told me, would fight the government or become rebel bandits. Uh! the names of Javanese! As a writer of newspaper advertisements, it was my view that if grandfather’s words were true, the names that the Javanese took were no different than advertisements, whose messages were by no means truthful.

Very carefully I asked him: Did he like to fight?

“No,” he said, “but indeed I did study martial arts when I was young.” So he was a fighter; my grandfather’s words were right. “Have you been involved in fights?” I asked.

His eyes narrowed, as if defending themselves from an attack. Realizing that the question had aroused his suspicion again, I quickly added that my grandfather had made me study martial arts too. I studied for three years before graduating. But, I said, I had never been in a real fight.

He listened to my story with eyes full of life—the narrowness disappeared. He was indeed a fighter. No wonder the factory people didn’t dare any reckless attempt to throw him out.

I quickly turned the conversation away from fighting. He must not become suspicious again. Issue after issue emerged. I wrote and wrote. This person was interesting: Unlike other peasant farmers, he dared state his opinion, even though his approach was roundabout and he never went directly to the issue. And the more questions I asked him, the happier he was giving his answers. I thought he might have been a laborer in a town once. But I didn’t ask.

“Might I stay here tonight?” I asked.

He was surprised at my request. I wanted to stay overnight so I could study a little about how he lived. As expected, out came excuse after excuse. But I was unyielding. With great reluctance he finally gave his agreement. His youngest child was sent off with a letter to Mama in Tulangan.

So it was that I stayed the night.

That night the fireplace was lit, as was the custom if you kept livestock. Smoke filled the windowless space. My lungs were hot and tight. As the evening wore on, the silence was broken by the croaking of the tree frogs. I was given a place on the edge of the big sleeping bench. The other children, boys and girls, slept on my left. Their breathing seemed to speak to each other; they took turns in coughing. The fire finally went out. Then the mosquitoes attacked from above, the bedbugs from below. Ya Allah, how peaceful they all were in their sleep, and I could not even keep my eyes closed in my torment.

For how many hundreds, thousands of years, generation after generation, have they slept like this? Human beings with great resilience, great strength. Every other moment, my hand moved to get rid of a mosquito or bedbug. My eyes still wouldn’t close.
Slowly my irritation increased. I sat up in the dark. But the mosquitoes and bedbugs took no notice of my irritation; they were just as bloodthirsty as ever, as if they were the only beings who had to live. How high was the price I had to pay so that no one might ever accuse me again of not knowing my own people! Perhaps if I had not given them shopping money, I would not have eaten at all that night. What did they really eat each day? I still didn’t know.

I had just rested my head back on the sheaf of dried paddy stalks when I heard singing outside the hut. Who would be singing on this insect-ridden night? The voice seemed to hesitate. Before even one verse was finished, I heard the scrape of a door being opened quietly. I listened carefully. I could make out the shuffle of a long sarong on the floor. Obviously Ma Trunodongso. Then another scrape of an opening door. So husband and wife were up and going outside.

They wouldn’t be going out to relieve themselves. It was the midnight village song that called them. This was interesting material for my story.

Before I knew it, I was groping my way through the darkness to the door. I must add to my knowledge about them. Not long after, there was another sound of a door scraping open, but this time it was my hand that did the opening. I was now outside the house, with the mosquitoes but without the bedbugs. A black starless sky. My eyes tried to locate any human movement. Nothing but blackness. Where had the husband and wife gone? I tried to remember from what direction the singing had come. My arms and legs groped in that direction. I reckoned I had reached the jackfruit trees. The singing had long since died away.

“Impossible.” I heard a warning spoken emphatically.

There were several people under the jackfruit tree—at least three. The voice dropped to a soft whisper. Of course I was drawn in that direction.

“The priyayi staying with you is a factory spy for sure!” I heard. “And you haven’t the courage to kill him.”

“No, in the name of Allah, he is not a spy.”

“He’s Sastro Kassier’s family!”

“Even so, he is not like the factory people; he’s not arrogant like them. From Surabaya, writes for a newspaper, he says. He’s
going to write for the papers about how we’ve been cheated all this time.”

“Rubbish. As if you didn’t know what they’re like. Kill him and get it over with.”

“No blood shall be spilled in my house,” came the voice of Trunodongso’s wife. “Factory spies aren’t like that.”

“Very well, I will tell all this to the
Kyai
. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll be back again.”

I rushed back to the house while they were still talking. My hands and feet began to grope around again. Now it felt as if the house was far away, another mile or so. They must not find me outside.

Suddenly my feet slipped into a drain. I must be on the wrong path. The foul-smelling drain mud became my second layer of clothes. I must be near the well. I had indeed come the wrong way. The humiliation of it! For the first time in my life I had to bathe at night. And for the first time in my life I had to wash my own clothes, in the darkness and the cold.

With my teeth rattling, I finally reached my sleeping-bench. I had no dry clothes. I lay down but now pulled the bedbug-ridden mat over me as a blanket.

Even so I did not feel any more tormented than before. Rather I felt thankful to God: Trunodongso and his wife’s trust in me was a far greater blessing, overcoming the cold and torment.

In the morning, wearing only my underclothes, I washed my pants and shirt again and dried them. Then I wrote and wrote. It was clear they were involved in some kind of conspiracy. My guess was that they were banding together to fight against the factory. Perhaps I was mistaken. I must stay here perhaps another day.

Once again I strolled out the back to get to know my new field of action better.

That night I heard the singing again. I awoke and waited for the husband and wife to leave. The sky wasn’t as dark as the night before. The stars lit up the earth. The two figures before me made their way quickly to the jackfruit thicket. This time I didn’t dare go so close. From behind the bushes I could make out the silhouettes of several people. They didn’t stay long, but left for who knows where.

I returned to the house. For a long time I tried to light the
kerosene lamp. When I succeeded, I discovered that Trunodongso’s two sons had also gone. So too had their machete and sickle, which usually leaned against the wall. Only their hoes were left, lying side by side near one of the roof supports.

That morning only the smaller children were at home. Little Piah quickly brought water into the kitchen, aided by her younger sisters. I befriended her while she cooked, and she became restless as a result. I fetched a hoe from its place and went out the back. In bare feet, chafed by the cold, dirty ground, I began to hoe where the boys had finished yesterday. After only five minutes I had to stop. I was panting. I was ashamed of myself. Those boys were far younger than I, and they could hoe the ground for four hours without stopping.

There were no witnesses to my condition. How embarrassed and ashamed I would be if someone saw me out of breath like this. I began to hoe the ground again, but this time more slowly. Then little Piah arrived.

“Ndoro, don’t work like that, you’ll get dirty, you’ll fall ill. There’s coffee ready back at the house. Let me carry the hoe.”

I was lucky the offer of a drink arrived, otherwise I would have been obliged to continue that voluntary but murderous work.

“Don’t keep on hoeing, Ndoro,” forbade Piah politely. “If you blister your hand, you won’t be able to write.”

I didn’t even have a blister yet, but already I was unable to write; my hands shook uncontrollably. Still I had now, at least once in my life, hoed the ground. Clearly I would never be a farmer like them.

That afternoon I took my leave. I considered that I had enough notes. But the main thing was that I could not live any longer in these conditions. I now understood that these people were far stronger than I. They had the strength of iron; they were tempered by suffering. It was strange. Why should such a class of people, made so strong by their suffering, just keep on suffering?

Trunodongso stood bowing with hands folded before him and said how he regretted not being able to show me the kind of hospitality that was proper. His eyes were red from lack of sleep.

“If Bapak is ever in Wonokromo, come to our house. Make sure you visit us,” I told him.

The whole family escorted me. I groped in my pocket. There was still one rupiah and fifteen cents, and I gave it to little Piah.

“Don’t forget to visit us at Wonokromo. Look for the house of Nyai Ontosoroh. Remember it, Pak:
Nyai On-to-so-roh.
”

His wife’s and sons’ eyes were also red.