Footsteps (53 page)

So I would go over to her. And she would then set off explaining what the problem was. We would become involved in a discussion. But I would be more caught up in admiring the perfect proportions between her big eyes, her sharp pointed face, her pointed nose, and her full lips.

“Mas, you’re not listening!” she would accuse me in Dutch, which was the language we always spoke.

If I squeezed those full lips of hers, she would reply with a pinch. “That’s a bad habit, squeezing people’s lips!”

People said that full lips were a sign that their owner enjoyed the sensual pleasures. What about thin lips? I’ve never heard anyone comment about that.

And she knew that I wasn’t hearing anything of what she was saying. All I could hear was the sound of my passions inside me. Only after the pinching had gone on for some time could we actually get back to the discussion.

One day, or one evening actually, the following conversation took place.

“Here is a strange article, Mas. It’s completely different from what you’ve always said. It says that the Sarekat Priyayi was not the first Native organization in the Indies. It says that the first was called Tirtayasa and was founded in Karanganyar at the close of the last century. It already runs a school for girls, a cooperative, and a mutual credit group.”

I explained to her the differences between modern organizations and traditional associations. Tirtayasa had indeed been founded at the end of the last century by the Bupati of Karanganyar, Tirtokoesomo. Its members were his own subordinates. It was not founded on the basis of a common decision and common interests, but on the basis of the authority of the bupati. It was he who was now president of the Boedi Oetomo.

I continued that the key feature of modern life is the emergence of responsible individuals capable of making their own decisions and not simply acting all the time on the instructions of their superiors. Individuals now stand as autonomous persons in society. They are not just a component of society, as an arm or a foot is to a body, but a part of society that actually participates in deciding what will happen, and this lecture, which, if the truth be known, was meant as much for me as for her, went on and on and became more and more involved. And she bowed her head, listening attentively, aware of her ignorance before her teacher, who was no less attentive and no less ignorant.

These convoluted discussions became more and more frequent as well as longer and longer. And it wasn’t long before it was no longer a situation of an ignorant student and a bossy teacher. We
became comrades in discussion and debate. At first she just asked questions, then went on to rejecting some of my notions, and soon we had real debates taking place. In the end, however, it had the same outcome—she had to acknowledge the supremacy of her husband. And she was always willing to surrender, not to a bossy teacher but to her husband who loved and cherished her—to a husband who was always full of passion for her.

Life was beautiful. Love, work, passion, and debate seemed to form a never-ending chain into the future. Month after month passed by unnoticed.

Then one day I was visiting the Frischbotens in Bandung. I found Hendrik pacing up and down nervously in the front room.

“What’s the matter, Hendrik?” We no longer used
meneer
or
sir.

“This way,” he said, and he guided me by the shoulder into the house.

We came into a room that was divided in two by a white sheet curtain.

“Is that you, Hendrik?” came Mir’s voice from behind.

“Yes, and Minke’s here too.”

“Is it you, Minke?” came Mir’s voice again.

“It’s me, Mir. Good evening.”

“Sit down there, both of you. Don’t go.” She was silent. I could hear her panting and gasping. Silence. Then there came a piercing cry. Why did Hendrik bring me into his wife’s labor room?

“Don’t lift up your hips,
Mevrouw
,” came the voice of another woman. “The baby could tear you. Be careful, don’t move your legs. Keep them still and they will stay beautiful, no varicose veins.”

Then came the panting and gasping again, then the cry. Then came Mir’s voice calling out: “Are you two still there? Oh, God!”

“Patience, Mevrouw,” came the other female voice. “Isn’t that better? Ah. Take a deep breath. Concentrate all your strength for the push.”

Suddenly: “Minke, is your wife pregnant yet?”

“No signs yet, Mir.”

I glanced at Hendrik, and he was obviously anxious. Then I thought those unanswered questions again.

“Why don’t you talk to me, Hendrik?” Then suddenly Mir stopped and let out a groan.

The normally large room became claustrophobic with groans and cries. The white ceiling with its green ornamental iron flowers seemed to be moved by her cries.

“Can you imagine how painful this is, Hendrik?”

“More than you think, darling. Hold on.”

But Hendrik wasn’t as in control here as he was when as a lawyer he was dealing with all the cases of injustices and abuse of power that he confronted in his work. He was at a total loss at how to deal with the birth of his child. His child? Whose child? His child or mine? Perhaps within me, my manhood was crying out that it would be mine, my seed, my flesh and blood.

“The pain is more frequent now, yes, Mevrouw?” asked the woman in a rather mumbled Dutch. It was the voice of a recently arrived Pure-Blood. “Yes, yes, it’s every ten seconds now. Come on, take another deep breath—get ready to push with all your strength. Come on, Mevrouw, now!”

“Oh, God!!”

“Keep going, Mevrouw, don’t stop. Don’t lift up your hips or legs.”

The groans, cries, and the gasping for breath stopped.

“Don’t, Mevrouw, don’t lift up your hips. Take another breath. It won’t be long now, Mevrouw.”

“Hendrik!”

“I’m here, darling.”

“Minke, are you there too?”

She didn’t know that I couldn’t breathe either because of the way I too was feeling her pain.

“I’m praying for you and your baby, Mir.”

“You’re not praying for me, Hendrik?”

“Of course I am, darling.”

Her voice could no longer be heard from behind the curtain.

“Yes, that’s the way, Mevrouw. Good, good, don’t speak now. Concentrate all your strength on pushing down. Don’t hold back now, push, Mevrouw, that’s it, push, push, push.”

I knew that Mir was now biting her lips, holding back the cries of pain. It is with pain that women give birth to new life on this earth. I thought of my mother giving birth to me, no doubt the same as Mir was experiencing now. Woman, you risk your life for a baby that for nine months now you have been waiting and longing for. Mother, forgive me for all my sins. Bless the birth of this new being. Accursed are all those who say that mothers who
die become ghosts with no real name of their own. Accursed are they. They are low indeed, those people who are unable to appreciate the pain and suffering and risk of death their mothers went through to give birth to them. Ah, you, Mir, parts of your body will be torn and bruised by this birth. You will lose the beauty of your years of maidenhood, you will perspire the sweat of pain, cry out in pain, almost unable to breathe, all for your baby. Ya Allah, keep her safe and forgive her all her sins. Forgive her all her dreams, the unworthy ones and the grandiose ones. Without woman there would be no humankind. Without humankind there would be no one to praise your greatness. All the praise that reaches You, Allah, does so only because of the blood, sweat, and cries shed by woman who, with body torn, brings new life into the world.

And I remembered the words of the girl from Jepara before she died, when she expressed her hopes that her sons would be educated to respect womankind. And you, Mir, stay safe. Do not die. Because life is beautiful. Push your new child out into life. And do not die!

The shriek of the baby from behind the curtain pulled me out of my reverie. A new human being had arrived. I straightened my posture and took a deep breath of the fresh Bandung air. From behind the curtain I could hear someone working hard at breathing.

“A boy!” came the voice of the midwife.

“Oh, God! Is he all right?” asked Mir.

“As healthy as a fish in water, Mevrouw.”

“Does he have everything?”

“He’s perfect, Mevrouw.”

“Thank you, O God!”

“Quiet now, Mevrouw, everything is over.”

The baby was crying, unconcerned at anyone else’s problems, demanding whoever was about to pay it attention, and give it love. All I could do was listen to it crying…and who did this shrieking baby look like? A cold sweat broke out all over my body.

Hendrik stood up. He didn’t move across to the curtain. He turned around, looked at me, and then sat down.

These were the most important moments in the life of my friendship with my good friends Hendrik and his wife.

Whose child was it? I felt I would have to shout out the question to the baby at any moment.

“Meneer”—suddenly Hendrik was using the formalities with me again—“you too are shedding tears?” and tears hung from his eyes too.

He took out his handkerchief and wiped his eyes. I did the same.

“Would you like to have a child too, Meneer?”

Lightning out of a clear blue sky would not have caught me more unready. I grasped for something among all those feelings and thoughts I had been having. I answered quickly: “The great honor of womankind appears in its full glory at the time of birth, Hendrik. That’s what moves me. Go on, go in and see her. I will wait here.”

He looked at me for a moment, then stood and strode over to see his wife lying in bed behind the curtain. I sat and waited but with my ears pricked to hear what was said.

“Hendrik, here is your child, the child you have been longing for.”

“As white as cotton, Meneer!” added the midwife. “Congratulations, Meneer, congratulations, Mevrouw. No, Meneer, don’t squeeze his nose like that, his bones aren’t strong yet. A true Roman nose. No, not really, more a classical Greek.”

My heart felt empty and blank. And only two people knew why. It was not my child. I wanted to run, to run away from that room.

“Minke, aren’t you coming in?”

“Of course, Mir, if you’re ready!”

“Come on in, I’m ready.”

Hesitantly I too entered behind the curtain. The European midwife was washing the howling baby in a big washbasin. Her assistant was gathering the dirty towels, stained with the blood of the baby’s mother. The baby screeched again and again. Mir was lying down with a blanket over her. Hendrik was combing his wife’s hair. And—I don’t know what the smell was—but I could hardly breathe, something was pressing in on my lungs.

Mir summoned me over close with a gentle wave of her hand. I held her hand, which was warm, and said: “Congratulations, Mir. I join with you in happiness over the birth of your child.”

“Hendrik’s child too.”

“Congratulations to you too, Hendrik.” I held out my hand to him.

“Thank you, Minke.”

“Well, everybody seems safe and well. I must get back to the office, if I may,” and I left without waiting for an answer.

As soon as I got out of their house, it was as if I were running, carrying with me the blankness and emptiness that was in my heart. It was not my child. How I longed for a child at that moment! I now experienced the agony that Hendrik had once experienced.

“Quickly!” I ordered the coach driver.

And the coach raced off in the direction of my office.

I stared down at my desk. With my thoughts still on the baby, on Hendrik and Mir, I began examining the letters that lay waiting there. The one on the top—didn’t I recognize the way he wrote the letter r? Whose writing was it? But my memory wouldn’t work for me. I tore open the envelope. The handwriting, with that peculiar way of writing r, was the same inside. I had known that handwriting for a long time now.

“Meneer,” it read, “Governor-General van Heutsz has left for good, he and his pension. You are now without a protector anywhere on Java. There is no more special-friend-of-the-governor-general status for you. Be careful, Meneer. Don’t disturb things. Stop all your activities. Disband the Islamic Traders Union. Listen to this warning. If you don’t, be assured, Meneer, that something will happen to you.”

There was no signature. It closed with a line of big block letters: DE KNIJPERS—the Pincers.

I was not in a mood to deal with this or any other kind of threatening nonsense. I called Marko, and showed him the letter.

“Read it!” I ordered, and he read it. “Understand?” He nodded. “The Dutch isn’t too difficult, is it?”

“I get the meaning, Tuan.”

“So. What do you say?”

“No problems, Tuan. Don’t worry.”

“What if they have guns?”

“No, Tuan. If they had guns they wouldn’t need to send a letter like this.”

“How do you know?”

“They would come straight here and take action.”

“How do you know that?”

’From experience, Tuan. If they have guns, they are government people, or people close to the government, and they would be in uniform.”

“This is your responsibility, Marko.”

“Of course, Tuan.”

“Even if they have guns?”

“No problems, Tuan.”

I went on with my work, reading through the mail. There was nothing there that was at all interesting. Everything felt empty. What was it that I wanted? I handed all the work over to Wardi and told him that I couldn’t work that day.

I returned to Buitenzorg by train.

The emptiness and blankness began to smother me inside. The scenery that flashed by could not claim my attention.

“Mir did not give you a child.”

“And not Mei either.”

“And Annelies, neither did she.”

I bit my lip until it felt it might drop off. Was I indeed infertile? I had never had myself examined. I had never been sick all this time. I had never even had a cold. But such a frightening thing as…could I be impotent? Had the infliction that Hendrik suffered now befallen me?

I found Princess examining the latest SDI mail.

“Home already, Mas? Are you ill?”

I didn’t answer. I grasped her head in my hands and kissed her with all my might. It felt as if the blankness and emptiness inside me were driving me insane. How I longed for a child of my own.