This Earth of Mankind Read online

  “Oh!” she exclaimed once again. “No?”

  It felt as if a drum were pounding in my heart. So she knew: I was a Native. I could be thrown out at any moment. I could feel the glances of Robert Suurhof examining those parts of my body that were not covered up. Yes, like a vulture examining a candidate carcass. When I looked up I saw Robert Mellema stabbing at Annelies with his eyes. At that moment he turned to me, his lips becoming a thin, straight line. Oh Lord, what will happen to me? Must I be thrown out like a dog from this beautiful house, accompanied by the cascading laughter of Robert Suurhof? His eyes were knifing at my neck. The Mellema boy hadn’t even blinked.

  For a moment my vision blurred. All I could see was Annelies’s white gown, without a face, without limbs.

  And then I began to realize: It had been Suurhof’s intention all along to humiliate me here in someone else’s house. And now all I could do was to wait for the expulsion.

  A moment more and Darsam, the fighter, would be called and ordered to throw me out onto the street.

  All of a sudden I heard the shrill laughter of Annelies and this crazed heart of mine felt as if it no longer beat. Slowly I lifted my eyes toward her. Her teeth gleamed, visible, more beautifully white than any I had ever seen. Oh, philogynist! Even in a situation like this you can still admire and praise beauty.

  “It’s all right to be a Native,” she said, still laughing.

  Now Robert Mellema’s look was directed at his little sister. Annelies, challenging him, looked him straight in the face. Her brother looked away.

  What sort of drama was all this? Robert Suurhof did not say anything. Neither did Robert Mellema. Were the two youths in league to force me to apologize? Only because I had no family name and was a Native as well. Why should I? I would not.

  “Being Native is good too,” Annelies said earnestly. “My mother is a Native. Native Javanese. You are my guest, Minke.” Her voice had the tone of an order.

  Only then could I breathe freely again.

  “Thank you.”

  “It seems that you don’t like soccer. I don’t either. Let’s sit somewhere else.” She stood up and showed me the way, putting out her hand in that sweet, spoiled way of hers. She wanted me to take her by the hand.

  I stood up, and excused myself, nodding to her brother and Suurhof. Their eyes followed us. Annelies glanced back with an apologetic smile to the guest she left behind.

  As we crossed that broad drawing room, my knees almost gave way. I could feel the glances of the two youths stabbing into my back. We went into the back parlor, which was even more sumptuously furnished.

  Here, too, all the walls were made from light brown varnished teak. In the corner there was a dining suite, consisting of one table and six chairs. Close by there were stairs leading up. Small tables stood on guard, night and day, in each of the other three corners. A vase of European porcelain stood upon each one.

  Seeing my eyes fixed upon the display cabinet, she took me over to it. The cabinet stood against the wall opposite the dining table. In it were displayed art objects—I’d never seen such things before.

  “I am not carrying the keys with me,” said Annelies. “That’s the one I like best.” She pointed to a small bronze statue. “Mama says it’s an Egyptian empress.” She thought for a moment. “If I’m not mistaken her name is Nefertiti.”

  Whatever the name of the figurine, I was amazed that a Native, and a concubine at that, knew the name of an Egyptian empress.

  There was also a Balinese carving of the East Javanese king Erlangga, riding on the back of the mythical garuda bird. Unlike the others, it was not made from sawoh wood, but from some other kind that I had never come across before.

  On the first shelf there was a row of little ceramic masks, picturing all sorts of animal faces.

  “These are the masks from the story of Sie You Chie,” she explained. “Have you heard the story?”

  “Not yet.”

  “One day I’ll tell it to you. Would you like that?”

  The question sounded so inviting it drowned out all the sumptuousness, and the differences that existed between us.

  “Very much so.”

  “Then you’d definitely like to come here again.”

  “An honor.”

  There were no great clamshells sitting at the feet of the small tables such as I had seen in the bupati buildings. There was a phonograph on a low table with a small wheel on each of its four legs. The lower section of the phonograph table was used as a place to store music. The table itself was ornately carved. It must have been made to order.

  “Why are you silent?” she asked again. “You’re still at school?”

  “A school friend of Robert Suurhof.”

  “It looks like my brother is really proud to have him as a friend, an H.B.S. student. Now I too have a friend who is an H.B.S. student. You!” Suddenly she turned round toward the back door and called: “Mama! Over here! Mama, we have a guest.”

  A Native woman entered, wearing a traditional Javanese wrap skirt and a white blouse embellished with expensive lace, perhaps the famous Dutch lace made in Naarden, which we had been told about in E.L.S. She was wearing black velvet slippers embroidered with silver thread. Her neat attire, her clear face, her motherly smile, and her very simple adornments made a deep impression on me. She looked lovely and young; her skin was smooth and light-colored like the langsat fruit. So this was what she looked like, this Nyai Ontosoroh who was talked about by so many people, whose name was on the lips of everyone in Wonokromo and Surabaya, the nyai in control of the Boerderij Buitenzorg.

  “Yes, Annelies, who is your guest?” I was even more startled, for she spoke in Dutch.

  “An H.B.S. student, Mama.”

  “Oh yes? Is that so?” Nyai asked me. Her Dutch was good, with correct school pronunciation.

  I hesitated. Should I offer my hand as to a European woman, or should I treat her as a Native woman and ignore her? But it was she who first offered her hand. I was dumbfounded and clumsily accepted her grip. This was not Native custom but European. If that’s how they do things here, then I, of course, will offer mine first.

  “Annelies’s guests are my guests too,” she said. Her Dutch was so fluent. “How shall I call you? Sir? Sinyo? But you’re not Indo.”

  “Not Indo . . .” What should I call her, Nyai or Madam?

  “Are you really an H.B.S. student?” she asked, smiling affably.

  “Yes, really.”

  “People call me Nyai Ontosoroh. They can’t pronounce Buitenzorg. Sinyo appears to hesitate to call me that. Everyone does. Don’t be reluctant.”

  I didn’t answer. And it seemed she forgave my awkwardness.

  “If Sinyo is an H.B.S. student, Sinyo is no doubt the son of a bupati. Bupati of what regency, Nyo?”

  “No, Ny, Ny . . .”

  “Sinyo is so reluctant to call me by my name. Well, then, call me Mama, like Annelies—that is if you don’t feel insulted, Sinyo.”

  “Yes, Minke,” the daughter added. “Mama’s right. Call her Mama.”

  “I’m not the son of any bupati, Mama,” and with the use of the new name, my awkwardness, the differences between her and me, even her strangeness, abruptly disappeared.

  “Then you must be the son of a patih,” Nyai Ontosoroh continued.

  “Not the son of a patih either, Mama.”

  “Very well. But I am so pleased that Annelies has a friend to visit her. Ann, look after him properly, this guest of yours.”

  “Of course, Mama,” she answered cheerfully, now that she had her mother’s blessing.

  Nyai Ontosoroh left us. I was amazed not only that this Native woman could speak Dutch so well, but also that she was so relaxed with a male guest. Where was she educated? And why was she only a nyai, a concubine? And who educated her to be so free, just like a European woman? What had been a sinister, eerie place was changing into a castle of puzzles.

  “I’m glad I have a guest.” Annelies became even
more cheerful, knowing her mother had no objections. “No one has ever visited me. People are afraid to come here. Even my old school friends.”

  “Where did you go to school?”

  “E.L.S. I didn’t finish. I didn’t even get to fourth class.”

  “Why didn’t you go on?”

  Annelies bit her finger and looked at me.

  “There was an accident,” she answered, and did not go on. Suddenly she asked: “You’re Moslem?”

  “Why?”

  “So that you don’t eat pork.”

  I nodded.

  A maid served chocolate milk and cakes. And the servant didn’t come cringing in as she would have before Native masters. She walked in and stood gaping at me in amazement. That would never be allowed by a Native master: A servant must bow down, bow and scrape continuously. How beautiful life is when one doesn’t have to cringe before others.

  “My guest is Moslem,” said Annelies in Javanese to her servant. “Tell them out back not to let pork touch the other food.” Then she quickly turned to me and asked, “Why are you so silent?”

  “Don’t you know?” I asked in return. “Because I never dreamed I’d ever come face to face with such a beautiful goddess as this.” She was silent and stared at me with her day-star eyes. I regretted having said it. Hesitantly and slowly she asked, “Who do you mean by this goddess?”

  “You,” I whispered, and the look on her face changed. She tilted her head. Her eyes opened wide.

  “Me? You’re saying I’m beautiful?”

  I became more daring, insisting, “Without rival.”

  “Mama!” shouted Annelies and turned around to the back door. Disaster! I exclaimed no less loudly than her—but in my heart, of course. The girl went to the back door. She was going to take the matter to Nyai. Crazy child! Such a contrast with her beauty. And she’s going to complain: Minke’s being impertinent. Indeed this house is a place of misfortune. No, no, not misfortune. Whatever happens now, it will all be of my own doing.

  Nyai appeared at the door and walked toward me.

  My heart started to pound again. Perhaps I had done wrong. Punish this impudent one, but don’t shame me in front of Robert Suurhof.

  “What’s the matter now, Ann? Has she started an argument, Nyo?”

  “No, we weren’t arguing,” the girl flashed, then she complained in that sweet, spoiled manner of hers, “Mama”—her hand pointed to me—“imagine, Mama, how could Minke say I was beautiful?”

  Nyai stared at me. Her head was tilted a little. She looked at her daughter. In a whisper, with her two hands placed on Annelies’s shoulders, she said:

  “You know I’ve often said that you’re beautiful? And extraordinarily beautiful? There’s no doubt you’re beautiful, Ann. Sinyo is not wrong.”

  “Oh, Mama!” Annelies’s face reddened.

  Now Nyai sat down on the chair beside me. She said quickly:

  “I’m glad you’ve come, Nyo. She’s never mixed properly like other Indo children. She hasn’t become an Indo, Nyo.”

  “I’m not an Indo,” the girl contradicted. “I don’t want to be an Indo. I only want to be like Mama.”

  I was even more amazed. What was going on in this family?

  “Nyo, you heard it for yourself: She’d rather be a Native. Why is Sinyo silent? Perhaps you’re offended I’m only calling you Nyo or Sinyo? Without any title?”

  “No, Mama, no,” I answered hastily.

  “You look confused.”

  Who wouldn’t have been confused? Nyai Ontosoroh was behaving as if I were someone who had known her for a long time, but who had forgotten her. It was as if she had given birth to me herself and was closer to me than Mother, even though she looked younger than Mother.

  I waited expectantly for Nyai’s anger to explode because of my crazy compliments. But she was not angry. Exactly like Mother, who also had never been angry with me. My soul’s ear heard a warning too: Beware, don’t equate her with Mother. She is just a nyai, living in sin, giving birth to illegitimate children, low in moral character, selling honor to live easily and in luxury. And I couldn’t say she was ignorant. Her Dutch was fluent, and polite. Her attitude toward her daughter was refined and wise and open, not like that of Native mothers. She behaved just like an educated European woman.

  “The trouble is, Ann,” Nyai added, “you don’t mix, you only want to be close to Mama.” But suddenly, her words were then directed at me. “Nyo, do you usually compliment girls in this way?”

  The question flashed at me like lightning. Seeing this as a good omen, I was encouraged to parry like lightning, but carefully.

  “If a girl is indeed beautiful, there isn’t anything bad in saying so, is there?”

  “A European or a Native girl?”

  “How is it possible to compliment Native girls? It’s impossible even to get close, Mama. European girls, of course.”

  “Does Sinyo dare do such a thing?”

  “We’re taught to state our feelings honestly.”

  “So you are game enough to compliment European girls to their faces?”

  “Yes, Mama, my teachers teach European civilization.”

  “How do they respond to your compliments? Abuse?”

  “No, Mama. There is nobody who doesn’t like being complimented, my teacher says. If someone gets insulted because of a compliment, they say, it’s a sign of a dishonest heart.”

  “So how do these European girls answer?”

  “Their answer, Mama, is thank you.”

  “Like in the books?”

  She reads European books, this nyai.

  “Ann,” she continued, “answer thank you.”

  Just like a Native girl, Annelies blushed with embarrassment. She didn’t say anything.

  “And how about Indo girls?” asked Nyai.

  “If they’ve received a good European education, they behave just the same, Mama.”

  “If they haven’t?”

  “If not, and especially if they’re in a bad mood, they abuse you.”

  “Sinyo is often abused?”

  I knew then that I was blushing. She smiled and turned to her daughter:

  “You heard it yourself, Ann. Come on, say thank you. Wait a minute. Nyo, say it again, this compliment of yours, so I can hear it too.”

  Now I became really embarrassed. What sort of person was I dealing with? She was so clever at capturing and seizing my mind in her hands.

  “I’m not allowed to hear?” she asked, looking at my face. “All right.”

  Again she left us. Annelies and I followed her with our eyes until she disappeared behind the door. And we gazed at each other like two children, equally startled. I burst into uncontrollable laughter. She bit her lip and looked away.

  What sort of family was this? Robert Mellema with his frightening, stabbing glances. Annelies Mellema, so childlike. Nyai Ontosoroh, so clever at capturing and seizing control of people’s minds that even I lost my judgment and forgot that she was only a concubine. And what about Mr. Mellema, owner of all this abundant wealth?

  “Where is your father?” I asked.

  Annelies frowned.

  “You don’t need to know. What for? Even I have no desire to know. Even Mama doesn’t want to know.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Do you like to listen to music?”

  “Not now.”

  And so the conversation dragged on until lunch was served. Robert Mellema, Robert Suurhof, Annelies, and I sat surrounding the table. A young servant, female, stood near the door awaiting orders. Suurhof sat beside his friend and every now and then stole a glance at me and Annelies. Mama sat at the head of the table.

  There was much more food than we could have eaten. The main dish was veal, a food I tasted then for the first time in my life.

  Annelies sat beside me and served me, as if I were some European master or a very respected Indo.

  Nyai ate calmly, like a genuine European woman who had graduated from an English boa
rding school.

  I earnestly examined the position of the spoons and forks, the use of the soup ladle and the knives, carving forks, and also the elaborate dinner service. It was all perfect. The white steel knife seemed to have been sharpened not on stone but on a steel grinding wheel, so there were no scratches. From everything I had read, even the position of the napkins and the finger bowls and the position of the glasses in their silver cases could not be faulted.

  Robert Suurhof ate greedily as if he had not seen food for the last three days. I was hesitant even though hungry. Annelies hardly ate anything, only because of the attention she paid to serving me and me alone.

  When Nyai stopped eating, naturally I did too, and so did Annelies. Robert Suurhof continued eating and seemed to ignore Nyai completely. And I realized I had not heard the woman speak to her son even once.

  “Minke,” Nyai said, “is it true people can now make ice? Ice that is really cold, as the books say?”

  “It’s true, Mama, at least according to the newspapers.”

  Suurhof swallowed, while glaring at me.

  “I want to know if the newspaper reports are true.”

  “It seems everything will be able to be made by man, madam,” I answered, though in my heart I was more amazed that somebody could doubt a newspaper report.

  “Everything? Impossible,” she replied.

  The conversation stopped abruptly. Robert Mellema invited his friend to go outside. They stood and left without taking leave of the Native woman, Nyai Ontosoroh.

  “Forgive my friend, Mama.”

  She smiled, nodded to me, stood up, then left too. The servant cleared the table.

  “Mama must continue her work in the office,” Annelies explained. “After lunch like this, I have work to do, but out at the back.”

  “What do you do?”

  “Come on, join me.”

  “What about my friend?”

  “No need for you to worry yourself. My brother will invite him to go off hunting. He always goes hunting birds or squirrels with his air gun after lunch.”

  “Why must it be after lunch?”

  “The birds and squirrels are also full and sleepy, so they’re not so quick. Come on, come along.”

  I walked behind her like a child following after his mother. And if she hadn’t been beautiful, how would that otherwise have been possible? Oh, philogynist!