Child of All Nations (47 page)

“You’d like a little brother, May?”

“Yes, Nyai, very much.”

“Does Mama remember that holy task, Ma? From her? She asked for a pretty little sister, Ma.”

Suddenly Mama’s face went gray. She gazed at me silently. She embraced Maysoroh with one arm and kissed her forehead.

“Doesn’t my little brother ever cry, Nyai?” asks May.

Only then did Mama and I realize that we had truly never heard Rono cry.

Minem’s mother brought in a new batik sash and Mama used it to carry Rono.

“A bottle and a napkin.”

As Minem’s mother left, Darsam entered, wearing his best clothes, shining black, made from the best cloth. His machete was in his belt. The tips of his destar stood up in challenge like his symmetrical, thick, curling, pitch-black mustache. He saluted with his right hand, now healed.

“I didn’t summon you, Darsam.”

“But there is something I have to report, Nyai,” he said.

“Oh yes. You’ve met with Jan Tantang.”

“That’s right, Nyai. He expressed a thousand thanks and will make use of your offer. Such a good man.”

“And you were going to kill him. You were crazy!”

“It was his own fault. There are two other matters, Nyai. That Sinyo Robert, the sinyo who came here once and then I took him home…”

“Robert Suurhof, Ma,” I added.

“He was made chief jail bully, Nyai, and beat up Jan Tantang in the European block. Sinyo Robert was then beaten up in turn by some Madurese. He didn’t die, Nyai—just some light injuries.”

“And what about your friends, Darsam?” she asked, referring to those who had been jailed for protesting Annelies’s being taken. She ignored Robert Suurhof.

“That’s the second thing, Nyai. They were sentenced to two months’ solitary confinement—no visitors, of course.”

“Is that all?”

“That’s all, Nyai.”

“Good. Wait with the other guests inside.”

He saluted once again and left us. Minem’s mother brought the bottle and napkin and Nyai tied them to the free end of the sash. Carrying Rono, rocking him that way, Nyai didn’t at all look like a grandmother with her grandson, but like a young mother with her first child.

“I forgot to tell you, Child: The court acknowledged the child as Rono Mellema, as Robert’s son, just after I received Robert’s letter and the police message from Los Angeles.”

“That’s good, Ma.”

I didn’t have the chance to check any further whether Rono really had never cried all that time. All my attention was concentrated on Mama. I wanted to be ready to move if she ordered Darsam to kill Mellema. I hadn’t heard her give any such order. But who could know for sure? In the meantime I could only hope and pray.

From the front parlor came the chimes of the pendulum clock; it was a quarter to five. Thunder began to growl in the distance, preceded each time by a flash of lightning. The day was becoming even gloomier.

“Come on, May, let’s go out front.” Maysoroh ran out ahead of us.

“Remember, Child,” whispered Nyai as we walked, “you
will be facing your enemy, your own enemy. Don’t be silent as you usually are.”

“Ya, Ma, before him we have only our mouths. Nothing else.”

“So you need to understand now”—she observed my face—“he will never read your writings, so he must listen to your voice.”

“How do you know, Ma?”

“People greedy for money and property, Child, never read stories; they are barbarians. They have no concern for the fate of other people, let alone people who exist only in a story. His revenge against his father has now turned into revenge against everything that was ever close to his father. It’s a pity Dr. Martinet is in Europe at the moment. If he were here…”

She nodded to her guests. Jean Marais strove with difficulty to stand as if honoring a great queen.

“Forgive me, gentlemen, that we’re a little late,” she said in Malay. “We thank you for your willingness to be with us as we meet Engineer Maurits Mellema.” She went on, in a somewhat official manner, “We believe that at the very least you have come freely to stand beside us in this matter, even if you should decide not to join us in what we do later.” She turned to me and asked, “Where’s Darsam?”

Darsam wasn’t there. I rushed out back again. I found him changing his destar for the blue-black of a
kain wulung.
And now he was wearing the pocket watch I had given him. Before leaving he took his machete from his belt and inspected it, then walked hurriedly along behind me.

“Do you need to bring the machete, Darsam?” I asked without turning. “It’d be better if you left it at home.”

“And what is Darsam without his machete?” he asked.

As I turned I saw him stroking his mustache. His eyes shone; he knew that there was some great work to be done.

“It looks like something important is going to happen today, Young Master.”

“Yes. But don’t you do anything drastic this time.”

“This Darsam here, Young Master, he knows when he has to act. All is under control. Don’t worry.”

My anxiety was aroused once again on hearing his confident words.

“Watch out. Don’t cause any trouble. You have to realize,
Darsam, this time Mama really needs your serious help. Her troubles are very great indeed. Don’t you add to them with something new.”

“Don’t worry, Young Master, I guarantee all will be well.”

The wind stilled; the world seemed to have stopped breathing. The layers of thick cloud began to sprinkle droplets of rain, hesitantly. The day became darker. Darsam lit the gas lamps. The front parlor and the back of the house were bathed in light; the house was magnificent in its grandness.

We sat on our chairs, arranged in a row facing the front courtyard: Darsam, Jean Marais, Maysoroh Marais, Mama with Rono Mellema, Kommer, and me. In front of us was a table and on the other side an armchair for the honored guest.

It was all arranged so that the light from the lamps would shine down onto Engineer Maurits Mellema while his welcomers would be sheltered from it. Just like the preparations for a scene in a play, I thought—and that was exactly what it was.

No one spoke. Even Maysoroh, the little prattler, became submerged in the oppressive, mute atmopshere, more oppressive than when we were awaiting the decision of the court.

Three times already Kommer had taken out his watch and told us the time. And again now: “Two minutes past,” he said.

Darsam took out his gold watch, but said nothing.

The drizzle stopped. The atmosphere still oppressed us all.

At ten past five a navy carriage at last appeared in the front courtyard.

I rose and went to the edge of the steps. I had been given the task of greeting this man who had murdered my wife. I still hadn’t hit upon the right sentence: one evincing never-to-be-reconciled enmity or just the usual greeting to any guest?

The carriage stopped in front of the steps. A sailor jumped down from inside, saluted, and opened the door. A young officer alighted, complete with epaulettes on his shoulders and a sword at his waist. He was dressed all in white from the top of his head down to his shoes and laces. He stood erect on the ground, then straightened his shirt. The sailor, also dressed in white, saluted.

“Good afternoon.” I extended my greetings in Dutch. “Welcome, Mr. Mellema.”

He merely nodded without looking at me. His attitude was offensive and hurtful. I felt I wanted to punch in his head, though my arm wouldn’t have reached him because he was so tall. Yet I escorted my wife’s murderer inside. So this, it appeared, was Engineer Maurits Mellema: Tall, with the physique of a sportsman, broad and strong-chested, a long pointed nose like those of Greek statues, handsome, dashing, no mustache, no beard, gray eyes. He strode up the stairs with confident steps.

On entering the parlor, he stopped, raised his hand, and said in Malay, “Greetings!”

The people sitting in the chairs all stood up, as if on command. Jean Marais too, and Nyai carrying Rono Mellema, and Maysoroh too.

“Greetings!” they all answered together.

“Am I now meeting Nyai Ontosoroh alias Sanikem?” He continued in Malay, his gaze focused on Mama, ignoring the others.

“You are not wrong, Tuan Engineer Maurits Mellema. I am Sanikem,” answered Nyai. “Please sit down.”

“No time to sit,” he answered arrogantly. “This will only take a moment.”

“It does not feel right that it should be just for a moment. Look, the friends of your business have all come to greet you.”

He looked at them one by one, from Darsam at one end to me at the other.

“Let me introduce you to them. Over there, Tuan, is Darsam, our chief of security.”

Darsam coughed, and thrust forward his machete. Engineer Maurits Mellema was unsure what to do, and just nodded to the Madurese. The object of the nod showed his teeth.

“Then, there is Tuan Jean Marais, a painter, a French artist.”

The guest was even more unsure of himself now. His legs moved for a moment. Forcing himself, he moved forward, closer, and held out his hand. He asked in French, “You are a Frenchman?”

“Yes, Mr. Mellema.”

“A painter?” he asked amazed.

“Not wrong, Mr. Mellema. And this is my daughter, Maysoroh Marais. Greet Mr. Mellema, May.”

The child held out her little hand, and the guest smiled as he took it. He pinched May’s chin, saying in French, “Good afternoon, pretty child.”

May quickly started prattling in French, admiring the embroidery and decorations on his shoulders and sleeves and asking if she could feel them. The guest bent down so she could feel his epaulettes, the gold embroidery on his back, the embellishments to his sleeves, even the decorative cords hanging from his sword.

The tension fell away. This arrogant man is a normal human being; he is fond of little children too, I thought.

And at that moment I felt Mama’s sharp gaze piercing my back. I turned to her. Yes, her eyes were watching me to ensure that I was not taken in by the pretense.

“Enough, May. Say thank you,” said Nyai.

Engineer Mellema straightened again and Nyai Ontosoroh continued: “And this is Tuan Kommer, a journalist, Tuan Mellema.”

The guest was startled again, nodding. Seeing that Kommer was an Indo he didn’t offer his hand.

“And on the end there is Tuan Minke, my son-in-law, Annelies’s husband.”

He seemed nervous. Standing erect before Nyai, he turned to look at me. I saw that he didn’t know what he must do. With a reluctant heart and obviously forcing himself, he stepped towards me. Nyai went on, “A graduate of H.B.S., a candidate doctor.”

He held out his hand to me, saying in Dutch: “Yes, Tuan, I am here above all else to express my sadness to you.” He turned to Mama and said the same thing to her in Malay.

“No need for that,” said Nyai in Malay when she saw Mellema coming across to her with hand extended. “The loss of my daughter cannot be replaced by the handshake of her murderer.” Her voice trembled.

Despite the signs of his grandness—his uniform, his white skin—he shriveled before us. I too shriveled at those words. My breast tightened, knowing I did not have the courage of my mother-in-law.

“That is too harsh, Nyai.” Engineer Mellema defended himself. “I understand how sad you and Tuan…”—he turned to glance at me—“but to accuse me of murder is going too far. It is not true.”

“Tuan has lost nothing except respect in our eyes. Yet you have gained everything from our loss,” Nyai went on. Her voice still quavered.

“I can’t accept that. Everything has its rules,” the guest answered. He still stood, and all his welcomers still stood also.

“That’s true,” said Nyai in Malay, “there are rules to deprive us and to allow you to profit from everything.”

“I didn’t make the rules.”

“But you have done your best to use those rules for your own profit.”

“Nyai can hire an advocate.”

“A thousand advocates cannot return my daughter to me.” Now it was not only her voice that trembled, but also her lips. “There is not a single advocate who would take on the defense of a Native against a Pure. That is not possible here.”

“What can one do, if that is the will of God?”

“Yes, the will of Tuan has become the will of God.”

Engineer Maurits Mellema went silent, perhaps because his Malay was limited.

“You don’t want to be responsible for any of this, so it is God that you order held responsible. Very beautiful. Why won’t you account for yourself to me? To her mother, who gave birth to her, raised her, educated her, and looked after her financially?”

The tremble in her voice and her lips slowly disappeared. She turned to me. Now again I shriveled up, having nothing of my own to fling at him.

“It has already happened,” the guest began again. “That’s why I have come here, to—”

“—to give up your guardianship over my wife and give it back to me?” I hacked at him, forcing myself, in Dutch.

“…to-to-to—not to fight.”

“You don’t need to fight with us. There are many other people you can use to do that, even to kill some of us,” parried Nyai. “Tuan Kommer, what do you have to say?”

And with that fluency of his, he spoke in Malay: “Tuan Engineer Maurits Mellema, as a journalist I promise you that everything you say here today will be made public. All of Surabaya will know what kind of man you are. Keep on talking, but maybe you had better sit down.”

Still the guest would not sit. He bit his lower lip.

“Tuan Marais,” said my mother-in-law, “this is Tuan Engineer Maurits Mellema, about whom you have heard so much. Do you not feel that it is only proper that you accept the honor of using this very valuable opportunity to speak with him?”

“Monsieur Ingénieur Mellema,”
began Marais in French, “Monsieur was born and educated in Europe, a scholar. So was I, though I did not graduate. But how great is the difference between us, Monsieur; you came here seeking wealth and power, I simply as a wanderer.”

“I came here for the Netherlands,” answered Mellema.

“You did not come to this house for the Netherlands. There is no Netherlands here, not even a picture of the queen.”

The guest coughed; his eyes sought out a picture of the queen but all he found was a painting of Nyai Ontosoroh, in all her grandness, hanging over the door that led into the back parlor.