Footsteps (42 page)

“You are frowning,” he went on. “To put it more clearly, we are hoping, maybe in the name of the Indos, that you will be able to publish occasionally some of the Malay stories of the Indo writers. If possible Francis. Francis has already died. Other writers are Makarena, Melati van Java, Don Ramon, Hendriksen de Baas, Barelino…”

He mentioned several other names that I had never heard of. I studied this lover of all things Indo. Perhaps he was just making up these names or they were the names of people he had met on his way here.

“…and if you can’t get hold of their writings, perhaps you would be prepared to publish some of my writings. Heh-heh, I sound just like a trader in the markets, don’t I?” he laughed at himself.

“Why don’t you publish your writings yourself, as a book?”

“I’d have to sell at least one house to get enough money to do that. And anyway, I have only one house, and it took me a long time to save up the money for that.”

“But the honor and fame is more important than a house, isn’t it?”

“That’s not it, Tuan. For me perhaps the house is not so important. But for my son it is important. With two acres he can grow a few things, enough anyway. And for my grandchildren it is important too.”

“You never mentioned that you also wrote.”

“Now I’ll tell you. My novel is about life on a sugar plantation and around a sugar mill, Tuan. It’s about how the Indos emerged as a group, how they mixed with the Pure-Bloods and the Natives, how they built their own world…how they loved…”

Troenodongso suddenly came to mind.

“And the peasant uprisings…”

“Exactly. They are also in my story.”

“And the concubines…”

“Of course!” He laughed boisterously. Sadikoen stopped crunching on his crackers, covered his mouth, and joined in the laughter.

“Do you know Arabic?”

“I can read, speak, and write it.”

“Why don’t you translate it into Arabic and publish it in Jeddah?”

“The Arabs are interested only in stories about other Arabs.” He shook his head.

“Why don’t you put it into Dutch?”

“Perhaps I could, but I would have to do it in the Indies, so I would still have to sell that house.”

“Let me read your manuscript. I will try to publish it, if it’s good.”

“You can publish it as a serial over a two-year period,” he said enthusiastically.

“So it’s not a small work then.”

“Its title is
The Tale of Siti Aini.
No matter where I go, I always take the manuscript with me, so that I can work on constantly improving it. I also see it as a contribution from the Indos, and not just from this worthless person, Haji Moeloek.”

He shifted the conversation away from the life and activities of the Indo community. His description of that life was so completely different from that of Mama’s in Surabaya—an incredibly boisterous life full of unfathomable events, confusion, conflicts, and other jumpings up and down on the stage of life.

“I’ll go and get the manuscript,” he said.

“But the chicken is almost ready,” I said, trying to discourage him.

“It will only take ten minutes,” he said, crowing.

He left and straightaway the grilled chicken arrived, golden brown and glistening in oily kecap. And out of the holes left by the skewers wafted the most mouthwatering smell, an aroma more wondrous than could ever come from any incense.

“His manuscript is, of course, more important than grilled chicken,” I hissed.

“I think he should have been more polite. Please forgive my friend,” said Sadikoen. “Now you have to let your chicken get cold while we wait.”

And the beautiful white rice with the steam rising up out of it set my intestines dancing. And perhaps even the worms in my stomach were cursing that they had still to wait for their meal.

“Why aren’t you at your congress?” I asked Sadikoen.

“I thought more about this question of movement from minus to plus. All movement toward a better situation is positive, whether through prayer or action, but boycotts…”

“Ah, so that’s it?”

“There was no need for you to publish your editorial. I don’t know what van Heutsz would have thought of it. Have you seen him recently?” he pressed me. When he saw me shake my head, he went on, “I don’t think he would have liked it. He will think you’ve gone too far. At the very least you will get some kind of reprimand.”

“Yes, I’m waiting for a reprimand. But that’s his mistake. As time goes on, people start to take bolder and bolder steps. And not everyone returns to where they started out. He should understand that.”

“Nothing but trouble will come of this.”

To be truthful, his warning worried me. The question had become more and more an issue in public debate. I had received several letters asking for further explanation. There was even a young woman who came to see me, escorted by her maid. She arrived, explained in fluent Dutch what she wished to discuss, and then asked for a further appointment. She didn’t give her name but announced her title—Princess of Kasiruta. A princess, and with such a unique beauty! As regards the boycott, Princess, I said to her, I will write about it further at another time. Would you mind, Princess, if I ornament that article with the dedication: For the Princess of Kasiruta? She smiled so sweetly, caressed by my offer. And she was unlike a Javanese girl—her movements and the way she talked were so free, so relaxed. And now Java Doctor Sadikoen was warning me that only trouble would come from my boycott editorial.

“Now about BO. I purposely stayed away today. Everything is going as planned. BO wants to get rid of all the bad ways. It will keep those things which are good. Everything will stay within reasonable bounds. We want to achieve things by accepting things as they are. We’re not fantasizing about things that can’t be achieved, we’re not kidding ourselves.”

“You mean BO is pursuing realistic policies?”

“More or less. Yes.”

“But humankind is able to create new conditions, a new reality. We are not fated to swim forever among the realities that are here now.”

“We are not dreamers, not fantasizers.”

“Everything that is worthwhile in human civilization has not
only originated from but indeed been inspired by dreams, by imagination…. Do you think the automobile and the locomotive were created by accepting things as they are? No, they also came from dreams and imaginings.”

Haji Moeloek returned with a big parcel. His face was red. It looked as though he had been running: “I hope the chicken isn’t cold,” he apologized.

“Ayoh, let’s eat.” I set the program.

And three chickens, which two hours before had still been running about on their own two feet, still tidying up their ruffled feathers, still competing with their fellow roosters, now disappeared, destroyed, dissolved in our mouths among the glistening kecap and saliva, then to descend our throats to meet the waiting worms in our stomachs.

As I savored the deliciousness of the meal, I remembered what some of the students at the medical school used to say. The measure of a man’s pleasure was six inches. And so it was with this meal. As soon as the chicken had passed through our throats, the deliciousness disappeared to who-knows-where.

“It hasn’t disappointed you, Ndoro, has it?” asked the stall woman.

Haji Moeloek held up his thumb. Mas Sadikoen nodded slowly, while swallowing the last bits he had in his mouth. And I growled like a cat, spied by a rival.

Now Haji Moeloek opened up his “merchandise.” A tall pile of exercise books sat before me. His handwriting was large and beautiful, in black ink, I observed that there were no crossings-out anywhere. He must have been a first-class scribe at one time or another.

“You may study this manuscript, and I am sure you will not be disappointed.”

“I will study it.”

“This is what I will leave behind me when I die. Next week I sail again. Give me a receipt. If you publish it, send it to the Dutch Consulate in Jeddah.”

While it was true that his self-introduction had been rather tedious, it turned out that this man was not difficult to get along with. In fact, it was a pleasure to know him. He did not hide what was in his heart. Perhaps it was because he was an experienced man of the world. I gave him a receipt.

“Perhaps one day people will look back and remember that the Indos did indeed make a contribution to the advancement of the Natives.”

“But you don’t use an Indo name here. People will think you’re a Native.”

“One day people will know this author was an Indo, and not just any haji, but someone who wants to be buried not far from the grave of the Prophet. I’m not upset that the BO won’t accept me as a member because I am an Indo. But neither is the BO capable of writing what I have written.”

“I get the impression that you have actually written quite a lot.”

He laughed. His already wrinkled face shone.

“That’s right, using many different pen names.”

“You’d probably be famous by now if you hadn’t used different names.”

“It’s a pity but I just prefer to disappear among it all. Perhaps it’s not so much a preference as such, but just a tendency that I have.” He laughed politely. “It’s enough to see that my writing has made someone else happy. Then I am happy too, Tuan.”

“But you would like to join the BO?” asked Sadikoen.

“So I could disappear into BO too. That’s closer to the truth,” he answered.

“And it makes you even happier to be able to leave behind some mysterious signs, though,” I added.

“Perhaps you’re right. But only one person will know who is the author of
The Tale of Siti Aini
—Haji Moeloek. Witnessed by you two gentlemen. No one else will know.”

The meeting ended, leaving a deep impression of a strange man who wished to leave the world a legacy without anyone knowing.

I didn’t meet Kommer again until after the congress. When the congress ended, I wasn’t chosen as the editor of BO’s new magazine. Neither was Douwager. My suspicions about the whole thing grew stronger.

From Jogja I went to Solo to hear the latest news about the soldiers of the Mangkunegaran Legion. Several officers were detained but no other action was taken. On the other hand BO began to grow dramatically. The merchants of Solo were also giving assistance.

From Solo I went to B—–. It was a boring trip, mainly through dust. And something amazing happened. I was received by my father without having to crawl along the floor. I was allowed to sit on a chair the same height as his.

“I may be transferred to a more difficult area,” he complained. “To where the big rebellion by the followers of Samin is going on.”

“But the Samin are no longer in rebellion.”

“Yes. But the results are the same. The rebellion may have waned, but that hasn’t helped the local treasury. In fact, there is less money coming in now than before. They dare the authorities to jail them and stir up turmoil everywhere. And imprisoning them just costs us more. The prisoner doesn’t have to pay anything. It’s the government that has to bear the cost.”

“But they have no leader anymore, Father.”

“Yes, he’s been exiled to Bangkahulu, they say. But it hasn’t had any effect. His teachings still inspire them.”

“Does Father really need to be bothered by all this?”

“Indeed, this is precisely the matter that I will have to solve.”

“Well, what’s wrong with them going on as they are now? They are not criminals, or thieves, or robbers.”

“That’s precisely the problem. They don’t do any harm to anyone, nor do they desire to. They just want to be left alone to live their own way.”

“Why don’t you just let them then?”

“But refusing to accept the authority of the government is itself criminal.” He was silent a moment and he watched me. “Everyone says that you are often summoned by His Excellency the governor-general. Couldn’t you raise this matter with him?”

“They just want to live their own way. I don’t think I should raise it with him, Father.”

“That means not being a bupati.”

“That’s not my intention, Father. Leave the Samin people alone, and Father can still be a bupati.”

Father stood up, and said: “Don’t you know that what you have said amounts to conspiring against the government?” His voice had become hard.

“I don’t see that. While they don’t make any trouble, they don’t need to be the subject of any report, do they?”

“You don’t understand. If I do that, I will end up with the poorest region in the world.”

“Father hopes for a medal from the governor-general?”

“Which bupati doesn’t?”

“Perhaps Father even hopes to be blessed with the title of ‘prince’?”

“That is the greatest hope of all bupatis.”

“And a gold umbrella?”

“You are making fun of your parents.”

“The governor-general doesn’t need any of those things,” I said slowly and cautiously.

“They are the measure of a good bupati. For you too, if you are made a bupati. How many in all of Java have been made a prince? Five at the most.”

“That is why I do not wish to be a bupati.”

“It is only if God wishes that you become a bupati. If God chooses you to become a bupati, then a bupati you will be. You will have no power to refuse; that would be rebellion. It’s strange that someone should not want to be a bupati—to govern over thousands of people, to be honored, to be bowed down to…”

And I remembered all of a sudden the speech that Multatuli had made to the Bupati Kartawijaya in Lebak, who was also honored and bowed down to, but was also the object of curses, hatred, and revenge.

“I am fortunate then that God has not made me a bupati,” I said, even more slowly.

“Is it true what I am hearing? What would you do if the government issued a decree appointing you?”

“I would refuse.”

“And where do you get the courage to refuse?”

“From the knowledge that I do not need medals, the title of ‘prince,’ or to be bowed down to.” Again I spoke slowly and cautiously.

Father let out a deep sigh, mumbling, then: “That’s what happens when you don’t know your place,” he whispered. “Go on, go and see your mother.”

I left my father without bowing in obeisance. I could feel his gaze follow me and stick to my neck. I strode slowly but confidently out to the back area. I found my mother sitting in a chair chewing betel nut. She didn’t see me arrive. I immediately went up and squatted down beside her, kissed her knee, and said nothing.