Child of All Nations (32 page)

Indeed I was afraid of that idea—just an idea. I didn’t have the courage to answer. I was ashamed to listen to my own voice, fearful that I might be exposed by that challenge to admit what I really was.

“Oh, yes,” Nyai Ontosoroh abruptly changed the subject. “I forgot: You want to continue your schooling at the Medical School in Betawi.” Her voice held the hint of a sneer.

“Yes, Ma. I will leave as soon as Panji Darman arrives.”

“But still it must be you who begin, Child, wherever you are, whatever school you attend. You were the first to suffer all these things, you know how things really are, and the reasons, and how things are connected.”

“Ma—” I tried to defend myself.

“If you don’t, you will be running away, Child. Do you remember that letter from your mother you once told me about? To run away is to admit you are a criminal. All your education and experience will be in vain. I know you are not someone who runs away.”

B
ut still we couldn’t close the book. Events kept pursuing us, one after another.

A newspaper story reported that a peasant rebellion had broken out in the region of Sidoarjo. The police were unable to handle it and had to call in the army. It took three days to quash the outbreak. Kyai Sukri, who was thought to be the mastermind, was arrested and brought in chains to the Tulangan sugar factory. The Tuan Besar Kuasa Manager was furious that the disturbances had held up production. He ordered Kyai Sukri punished with eighty lashes before being taken to stand trial.

The Kyai suffered his punishment, witnessed by all the factory employees, foremen and coolies. He let out his last breath with the seventieth lash.

“If your article had been published that time…” Mama began.

“Yes, Ma; without wanting to, I’ve ended up betraying them.”

“Your article would have made Nijman smell that there was something going on. You have been in the position of a spy working for Nijman—and unpaid to boot—and you could still be in trouble yet.”

I felt so ashamed to hear her sum up my situation that way. I saw Trunodongso, and little Piah, and Mama Truno. I had told Trunodongso that not all problems can be solved with machete and anger. Did they tire of waiting to see my promise carried out? Yes, surely they must have hoped they had an ally in me.

“It is good that you destroyed your article. But you are still in danger, Minke. Nijman knows now who you are. Sastro Kassier and his family know you stayed overnight in Trunodongso’s house. Jean Marais and Kommer know too, from the story you told them. I know. Jean Marais probably wouldn’t have said anything to anybody. But I don’t know about Kommer and Sastro Kassier and his family. If Trunodongso is caught, and mentions your name…” She sighed deeply. “If he is dead, then you should be all right, or at least things can’t be too bad for you.”

I knew I had to get away from this house, from Wonokromo, from Surabaya; I had to disappear.

“And me too, Minke, Child, because you were always with me. We have been involved together in another case. And there is the incident now with Darsam. Our situation is getting worse and worse.”

Yet again we were bound together by an unhappy matter. I felt even closer to her.

“It’s lucky you didn’t take up the Tuan Manager’s invitation while you were there, Ma.”

“Someone as young as that, well educated, just out from Europe, how could he be so heartless to order that Kyai Sukri be whipped—and eighty times too. The Kyai was already old and bent, perhaps with arthritis.”

And with the words she spoke next, I felt orphaned: “Yes, Minke, you must go. This house is not good for you. You are still young, you have the right to some joy, as Kommer said. I can handle these troubles. No need for you to stay with me through all these difficulties. But I cannot help thinking now: Trunodongso will remember your promise.”

“I could never leave Mama at a time like this. Even though it has been only for a short while, Ma, I have been very happy as your son-in-law, and that happiness binds me to you. I could never leave you in a situation like this.”

“No, Minke; you must have some joy in your life. But remember Trunodongso. You owe him a promise.”

“I told him once, Ma, not everything can be solved with machete and anger.”

“He will always remember the help you promised him.”

The conversation was brought to a halt by the arrival of a carriage. It would be Marjuki bringing back Panji Darman alias Robert Jan Dapperste from Tanjung Perak harbor. We had told Marjuki to convey our sincere regrets that we were unable to meet him ourselves.

As the carriage pulled up noisily outside the front door, we heard someone announce himself with a formal greeting. From behind the thick beard and mustache I recognized him: It was Trunodongso, about whom we had just been talking.

“Who is it, Child?” Mama asked, seeing me go pale.

“Trunodongso, Ma,” I whispered.

“Ha?” she rose from her chair and ran to meet her guest.

We went outside to help him. He looked filthy. He had covered himself with a horribly dirty sarong, all torn; he looked like a beggar. Behind the beard and mustache his face was pallid.

Without talking, Mama led him inside and into her office.

His eyes still fixed on me, the one person here whom he knew, he said very slowly: “Yes, Ndoro, I come to seek your protection.”

“You’ve got a fever, Truno,” Nyai Ontosoroh said to him.

“Ya, Ndoro, I am sick. Fever. Not
harvest-time fever.
I made myself come here even sick like this.”

Mama sat him down in a chair, unable to say anything more. Her eyes shot nervously about. Seeing her do that, I closed the office door. From the middle parlor came the sound of shoes heading our way. I jumped up and locked the door that led to the parlor.

“I have come, Master, Ndoro, to surrender my life into your hands, and that of my wife and my children.”

“Where are they?” asked Mama.

I hurried over to the window to make sure no one was trying to peer inside.

“Still on the other side of the river, Ndoro.”

“Why are you covered in a sarong like this?”

He opened his sarong. He wore no shirt, and on the left side of his back was a wound six inches long.

“From an army sword, Truno?” hissed Mama. Seeing the wound seemed to make her even more nervous. “Pull up your sarong. We’ll call a doctor soon.”

“I am afraid of doctors.”

From the window I saw Panji Darman walking towards the house. He waved, so pleased to be seeing everyone again. His face was bright, having lost some of its darkness while living in Europe. His cheeks were flushed, fresh, healthy.

“Hai, Minke.”

“Oi!” I answered. “Welcome, Rob.” I was still reluctant to call him Panji Darman. “We were too busy, we couldn’t meet you.”

“Ah, doesn’t matter. Where’s Mama?” He came closer to the window.

“She is well, well.” He reached the window.

“We’re busy right now, Rob. Can we get together tonight?”

He looked disappointed, nodded, and moved away.

“So you left them all, Truno, paddy, dry fields, your house?” asked Mama. “Minke, get someone to fetch Dr. Martinet. Tell Darsam to prepare a place in the warehouse.”

But Trunodongso didn’t feel safe without me. His eyes called out to me. I explained: “Wait here, Pak. Don’t worry. You are safe here as long as you don’t speak. Understand?”

“Don’t call a doctor for me.”

“Silence, you, Truno,” whispered Mama. “It’s all to help you.”

His head dropped in pain, and I went.

The grain warehouse was almost empty. Mama had ordered everything sold. Grain was being sold every day. Usually she waited for buyers to come looking, but not now. She was selling everything she could.

As I walked off looking for Darsam I could still see Trunodongso covering his body with the sarong. As he lifted the sarong to cover his back, we could see his swollen feet. He was no longer the Trunodongso who dared stand and challenge everybody with his machete. He was more powerless than a wooden doll.

I found Marjuki unharnassing the horses from the carriage. Frowning, he protested the new orders to go and fetch Dr. Martinet. “The horses are still tired, Young Master.”

“Take another horse.”

“They’re all being used at the moment.”

“Then hitch up these horses again.”

“They’re still tired,” he answered back.

So we had to argue. Darsam came along to help. Marjuki, with a very unwilling heart, harnessed his horses again. Darsam went off to carry out some other order.

When I got back to the office, I found Mama talking with Trunodongso. They were whispering to each other. As I came closer, I heard Mama say: “You’re ill; you can’t go to get your family yourself.”

“They won’t know how to get here,” he said.

“Minke will fetch them. Tell him where they are.”

“They won’t trust him,” answered Trunodongso.

“Minke will be able to make them trust him. They have seen him and met him before.”

“They still won’t believe he’s there to help them.”

“You must go, Minke. Don’t use one of our carriages; hire one. Truno, tell him where they’re waiting.”

So I set off in a hired carriage for the address he had given me: a ferry crossing along the Brantas River. I had never been to that area. The driver had to tell me where to start walking—for one mile to the south. I had to walk through villages. The carriage had gone on one mile past the Brantas Bridge. The driver had agreed to wait for me.

While I walked I tried to think why Mama had ordered me to fetch Trunodongso’s family. She could have sent anyone from the business. I was very tired and didn’t know this area of Wonokromo well at all.

The village lanes were dirt tracks, still and quiet, overgrown with grass, and looked as though they were never cleaned. There were no drains along the path’s edges, which were lined with shady dadap trees, cactus, and dead thorny branches. A number of people I passed moved to one side, hugging the edge of the path, because I wore European clothes and shoes, Christian clothes. Perhaps they thought I was some black Dutchman out looking for trouble.

As I got closer to the ferry crossing, it suddenly came to me: Perhaps Mama was deliberately sending me away from the house—from Trunodongso. If he had been followed by spies, only Mama would be arrested. I would not be there. If this were not the case Mama must have had something else in mind. And it was all a result of my own actions. Mama, ah, Mama, you have
nothing to do with all this, but still you hold out your hand to help, involving yourself in new troubles.

The ferry crossing was quiet—no one about except the ferryman himself, poling his way across the Brantas. I had no choice but to wait for him to arrive at my side of the river. There were no signs of Trunodongso’s family.

Seeing me waiting on the riverbank, the ferryman stopped his work. Indeed, he started to pretend to have some trouble with his raft. You! I shouted in my heart, you’re just pretending, you’re afraid of this black Dutchman too!

“Hey! You! Quickly! Over here!” I ordered in Javanese.

His eyes darted about, startled. Fear was written all over his face. Yet he brought the raft over to the riverbank and tied it to a wooden pole. He threw the rope over to the shore. He came up to me, bowing again and again, and stood, hands clasped in front of him: “Ndoro Tuan, Master.”

“Where are the people who were here a while ago, the ones not waiting for the ferry?” I asked.

“There’s been no one who hasn’t been waiting for the raft.”

“A woman, two boys, a girl who had little sisters?”

“No, Ndoro Tuan, no one like that.”

“Look out! Tell me quickly, or…”

“Ah, oh, ah…”

“No need for ‘ah, oh, ah’—do you want me to take you to my office?”

“No, Ndoro Tuan. Truly, there is no one here.” He bowed his head and eyes; he didn’t even dare look at my shoes.

“Is that true?” I asked threateningly.

He said nothing.

“Ayoh! to the police station.”

“Please, no, Ndoro Tuan. My children will be waiting for me at this time of day, Tuan.”

“Where is your wife?”

“I have none, Ndoro Tuan; I am a widower.”

“Who cares? Come along with me.”

“Mercy, Ndoro Tuan, I have done nothing.”

“No mercy for you. Come on.” I made a move to leave and he followed.

From the great fear he showed, I guessed he was indeed hiding the people I was after.

“Where’s your house?”

“I have never stolen anything, Ndoro Tuan. There’s nothing in my house.”

“Walk in front of me. Show me your house.”

He walked along slowly before me, every now and then turning to see if I was still there. I began to feel badly about the way I had treated him, about coming here wearing European clothes and shoes—symbol of the bogeyman, enemy of the little people. They would all think I was here to steal their freedom or their possessions.

One behind the other we walked along a narrow path under thickets of riverside bamboo, passing fields of neglected banana trees.

“That’s your house?” I saw a bamboo-thatched hut emerging from behind the thicket. Smoke formed clouds as it passed through the roof, only to be dispersed by gusts of wind.

“My hut, Ndoro Tuan.”

“Who’s doing the cooking?”

He kept walking, his head bowed, pretending not to hear. Seeing that, I quickened my pace, passed him, and ran on alone to the hut.

The bamboo door was open. It was dark inside, full of smoke. I saw Piah boiling something in an earthenware pot; she squatted facing the fire. Beside her squatted two smaller children.

“Piah!” I called.

She was startled when she saw me. Afraid. Her arms trembled. Her two younger sisters hugged close to her.

“You haven’t forgotten me? Are you afraid of me?” She kept her eyes on my shoes as she stood up. She placed her shaking hands on her sisters’ heads. “Where’s your mama?” I asked.

She still wouldn’t answer. Her eyes wandered to the bamboo sleeping bench. There Truno’s wife slept, beside her two boys.

“Tell your mother I’ve come to fetch you all. A carriage is waiting at the main road.”