House of Glass Read online

  It is always difficult to talk with somebody who is suspicious. Their perceptions are always colored by their suspicions. And he did indeed have grounds for being suspicious.

  I had to quickly change the topic of discussion, and offered him a manuscript by a relative of mine, entitled Si Pitung. I had owned the manuscript for a long time. I had gone through and corrected it in accordance with what was in the police archives. But the author never appeared again. I had checked and corrected and read that manuscript so often, it almost felt as if I had written it myself. The author was also a Pangemanan, but with only one n. He was a Protestant, not Catholic like my family. My wife did not enjoy his visits at all, and so he soon stopped coming around.

  Minke accepted my offer very politely, a politeness obviously put on for my benefit. I felt it was going to be very difficult to have a genuine conversation with him. And, yes, I had to admit I wasn’t being genuine with him anyway. It seemed I was not very clever at putting on an act at being two-faced. In that, I was like him. I had only one face, one heart—the face and heart of a priyayi, of course. Yes, he too faced the world without hypocrisy, but as a human being.

  Caught in a dead end in my conversation with this man, whom I admired and respected so much, the real contents of my heart spilled forth from my mouth. I talked about De Knijpers. In a mixture of sincerity and playacting I expressed my concern about the recent incident that he had experienced. The look in his eyes grew more piercing. Totally losing control of the conversation, I started talking about TAI, and then about De Zweep. At that moment, I felt truly ashamed of myself.

  He commented only briefly, but it cut me to the quick: “Very interesting!”

  He had effectively asserted his authority over me. There was no point in trying to prolong a conversation like this. It would only throw me into more confusion, so I stood and, bowing, excused myself.

  Back at the Hotel Enkhuizen, I contemplated the results of my work. The conclusion I came to was very simple. Like Suurhof, I had also run off head-over-heels. Except that there were no witnesses, praise be to God. I could deny everything if I ever needed to save face. Perhaps others could do this work better than I. If my superiors found out what had happened, they would laugh at me just as I had done with Suurhof. If being honest would bring that kind of laughter, then there was truly no need for that kind of honesty. This time I would just say that there was nobody home. My good name would not be sullied and my prestige not stained. Ah, I didn’t need to report anything.

  And I made another resolution. I had to help this good-hearted man who had only good intentions for the Natives, his people. By God, I would help him! He as a human being, and I too as a human being, by God! Give me strength. He must succeed. The situation was on his side. The Natives needed an organization to meet the challenges of these times. I must side with that which was taking things forward, with the forward march of history. This was my conscience speaking now. Pure. There were no personal interests mixed up in any of this.

  In Betawi my boss just nodded as he listened to my chatter. Then he made a truly stinging comment: “Writing a report, it seems, is much easier than putting it into practice.”

  “You can always try to write such a report yourself, Meneer,” I answered somewhat viciously, and I knew that his words were targeted at me not so much as a commissioner seconded to work for him but as a Eurasian who held a position above his station.

  “Well, if I had also spent several years at the Sorbonne . . .” he repeated his old sarcasm, “then you needn’t worry about that, Meneer Pangemanann.”

  “Even without the Sorbonne, I could prepare such a report, Meneer. I wasn’t appointed a commissioner for nothing. And you know that I was not promoted to commissioner because of some paper. And anyway, do you think organizing this kind of work is easier than leading troops?”

  “Europeans evaluate people according to the results of their work, Meneer.”

  “Exactly. That is indeed the glue of modern European civilization. That is also why we are now sitting facing each other like this. We both know what it is that we are carrying out. But why are you trying so hard to belittle it? Perhaps this is a remnant of the old Netherlands culture. I hope you are satisfied.”

  I saluted and left the room.

  I knew that he would not take away my promotion or withdraw my task. I had prepared my paper not on his orders but on the orders of the Algemeene Secretariat. He was just an intermediary. There was no power that could obstruct the will of that pinnacle of authority. So in the end this all meant that I had to return to my task of controlling the activities of the man I admired most among all men. I would have to do this using actions, methods, and people outside the law. It was I who would have to do this. I, a police official; a servant and an officer of the law.

  I had fallen so very low, though in my heart I refused to admit this fact. It still felt as if I had my honor, like the scholarship student I was fifteen years ago, or the police inspector of ten years ago. But the reality was different. Mud now stuck to my fingers, brain, and heart. It was not the fertile mud to be found on the farmers’ hands. It was colonial mud of use only to carpetbaggers and businessmen—mud that, in fact, made filthy the clothes of a priyayi.

  It was true that I had been given this task based upon my own report and recommendations. And it was the first time too that the editor of Medan had been made the object of such a rotten operation. Colonial power itself never knew the meaning of selflessness and honesty. Justice and law? And the guardians of the law! Even more rotten. What I had written in my report was nothing more than the logical extension of all the rottenness of colonial power and its lust to remain in control of the Indies for another thousand years.

  You must understand, however, that De Knijpers was operating before I was pulled in to handle the SDI. At that time the police were not involved at all. Suurhof’s gang had been hired by the plantation owners to terrorize their workers, to keep them timid and afraid. That was the beginning of it all. Then people began to think that there were wider benefits to be gained and the gang’s activities spread to the towns. They became the heroes of colonial society because of their seeming success in smashing up the SDI. They did indeed carry out many actions, often exciting and quite dramatic. It was only afterward that colonial society began to realize that these attacks by De Knijpers were strengthening the resolve, unity, and resistance of the SDI membership. The government was forced to bring its activities to an end by reprimanding the Algemeene Landbouw Syndicaat. The government’s actions were definitely not a result of anybody’s working paper, but were the result of a face-to-face conversation between Meneer W—and myself in his office at police headquarters.

  If the De Knijpers did not stop its activities, I said, there was a good chance that the nature of the clashes would start to change. It would no longer be a question of the SDI versus De Knijpers, but of Islam versus Christianity. Once this happened, the government would find itself in new difficulties. Perhaps this would not be a major problem, but it would be there for the long term. I reminded him that Machiavelli was the example that colonial regimes followed, in the Indies and around the world. No one ever actually mentioned his name, and there were no statues to honor him, yet it was he who had been deified.

  And yes, it happened. De Knijpers was reined in. In its disappointment, the gang dissolved itself simply by changing its name to TAI. But the government was not satisfied and disbanded it altogether. As a consolation to Suurhof, he was promised protection and was allowed to keep a few men, no more than ten. These remnants took the name De Zweep and were given to me, against my will, to help me in my task. Yes, I was now the head of a gang of thugs. Who says I had not fallen as low as anyone could fall? Curse them all!

  The situation turned out to be worse than I thought. It appeared that Minke had decided to answer my visit and my discussion of De Knijpers, TAI, and De Zweep by beginning an offensive against the Sugar Syndicate. There was a massive exchange of letters
between the Netherlands and Betawi, between the sugar mills of Java and the Netherlands, that lasted forty-eight hours. Stacked on top of each other, the pile of papers was as thick as a dictionary. I came in for more insults from my boss. I took it out on my subordinate. He no doubt went home and took it out on his wife, who in turn took it out on the children, and the children took it out on the servant. Only then did it all stop, because a servant is at the end of the line in life. In the evening, at the end of a day of slaving away, she will go into her quarters, often forgetting even to eat dinner. She will surrender her tears and her supplications to Allah, reminding Him of her right to some little corner of heaven and the punishment of hell for all employers. But tomorrow she will go out and serve her master again—working as usual again, insulted as usual again. Leave her master? Never! Just like me. I will never leave the service, no matter how many insults rain down upon me.

  I truly felt that the editor of Medan was challenging me directly, and that it was a direct challenge also to my position and my pension. I mobilized De Zweep. I ordered Suurhof to send an anonymous threatening letter to Minke. Then I myself made the pioneering visit to his office in Bandung.

  The only purpose of my visit was to check if it was going to be possible to keep him under control. No. He was indeed planning to challenge the Sugar Syndicate. If this man was paralyzed, would then his influence and his organization also be paralyzed? His political capital was no more than his daring thinking and his courage to act. Fortunately, not everybody was like him. And more than that, he was prepared to risk the consequences of his own actions.

  I left his office. I signaled Suurhof to carry out his task. What else could I do? As time went on, Minke’s writings in Medan were causing me more and more difficulties. I was not prepared to face the shame of the failure of being unable to control him. He must submit to my will. What is the meaning of just one individual, Minke? As an individual, he is no more important than I. I too have my own importance.

  Medan itself printed a report of Suurhof’s attack. Mr. H. Frischboten, in his usual vigorous manner, brought the case to court. They could not avoid this. His resolute struggle meant the matter was dealt with by the White Court. And once again this accursed bandit called Suurhof for the umpteenth time got me into trouble. The Betawi Police had to contact the prosecutor’s office and once again the insults thundered forth around me, as if they would never stop, like a huge explosion of dynamite. Gaping mouths all around spewed forth their gall, mouths decorated with mustaches and those without. The mouths of Pure Europeans. All Protestants. All my superiors.

  Of course, I defended myself. Suurhof had not acted according to plan. He had overstepped his orders. Then they blew their bad breath all over me once again. There were those who smelled of alcohol, others of lime juice; there were even those who smelled of petai beans—and they were all my superiors. They were so clever at finding fault. And I was only a Native who was occupying a position above my station. Scholarship and a degree meant nothing in the Indies. Here, once you became just another instrument of the powers above, the higher you went your mouth got bigger and your ears disappeared; the lower you went your ears got bigger and your mouth disappeared. Those whose education was inadequate tended to be the most sadistic and the ones who most enjoyed making others feel their authority.

  They had no desire to hear excuses. So Suurhof became the rubbish bin of my misfortune. Watch out, you bastard! You will have to pay for every injury to my pride. I will not let you get off without paying. You’re lucky you’re being protected by the authorities. In the court you were able to prove you had been a journalist for the Preangerbode for the last few years. All proved by a predated letter of appointment, of course. Frischboten was unable to counter such proof as that.

  And me, Suurhof? From me, nothing can protect your skull now.

  On arriving at my house, I found several unopened letters from my children in the Netherlands.

  “I am sure they’re all doing well at school, Jacques?” my wife got in her question first.

  “Of course, darling. Why wouldn’t they be doing well? You taught them all yourself, didn’t you?” I humored her so that she would not guess at how I was feeling. “Read them yourself.”

  “You usually read them for all of us.”

  “Very well. But let me rest a little first,” I said as I walked into my room, changed clothes, and lay down.

  “Have you eaten out?”

  “Yes, darling. I’m sorry,” I answered, even though hunger was worming away in my intestines. But I had lost all my appetite.

  And as usual Paulette felt the need to check for herself the truth or otherwise of what I said. She was the woman of the house and she would not allow anyone else to interfere with the feeding of her husband, from the moment the cooking got under way until the table was cleared. Usually, while pretending to do this and that, she would try to smell my breath. Once she was sure there was no smell of alcohol, she would embrace me and kiss me just like when we were newlyweds, but her hands would be checking out my stomach.

  “You haven’t eaten at all. Don’t let all my work be for nothing.”

  Here at home, I could not escape from this excessive love; I had no choice but to get up and sit at the dinner table.

  “You don’t like my cooking anymore. Or would you prefer Native food? Let’s go to a restaurant. Would you like that?”

  I shook my head and began to eat. She too began to eat but all the time watching me spoon the food in and swallow it down.

  “Is there trouble, Jacques? You don’t seem very happy.”

  Her excessive attention to my needs further killed my appetite. “You can eat alone tonight, darling. I have a headache,” I said, making excuses.

  I went to the front and sat down in the rocking chair. And I knew for sure that my wife would stop eating and come out and busy me with her demands for attention.

  But I was wrong. She continued her dinner, and remained out in the back until evening. Sitting by myself—I didn’t know where the younger children were—the problem of Suurhof was pushed aside by the same thoughts that always came to me during these moments in our marriage. Had I married a Native woman, I would never have had to worry about any of this nonsense. A Native women would just serve her husband because that was her one and only duty in life. I would not have to worry about what she was thinking, and I could enjoy the unlimited freedom of my kingdom as a man.

  It was five o’clock in the evening before she came out and reprimanded me: “Have a bath, Jacques. What is it that you’re worrying about? Leave your problems at work at the office. Here at home you belong to your wife and children, isn’t that right?”

  “Forgive me, darling,” and I stood up and went off to the bathroom just so that I wouldn’t have to speak to anyone.

  The cool and refreshing water revived me. Yes, my God, how compassionate you are to revive my spirits like this. Back in my room I put on office clothes again, and kissed my wife good-bye.

  “You promised you would read the letters to us.”

  “You can read them the letters, darling.”

  “But they’re not addressed to me.” We even have to organize the reading of letters according to an official division of labor, I thought. It’s driving me crazy. “Very well, darling. I’ll make sure I’m back before the children go to bed.”

  Back at headquarters I reported to Donald Nicolson that everything had gone smoothly in the Suurhof case and that the police had in no way been embarrassed. It was true that Suurhof and his men had in the end been given a jail sentence but there were no embarrassing implications for the police. It was a pity, but when I sat before the chief commissioner, the words did not come out as firmly as I had planned.

  “Nah, Meneer Pangemanann”—he pulled on his lips, thick and stiff—“once more you discover that it is much easier to write a report than put its recommendations into practice.”

  Anger and the fear that I was losing my good reputation left
me unable to answer.

  “And the idea was Meneer’s own. A pity.”

  “Do you wish to send me back to police work?” I dared him to demote me.

  “That time will come,” he answered. “Your job now is to make sure that the Suurhof case causes no more problems. It was your own recommendation that we take action outside the law.”

  “It’s a pity that Suurhof was no better than a diseased, sore-ridden cat in a sack.”

  “Do you want to find someone better than him, a bandit with some brains?” He truly knew my weakness. And that hurt. “Please put forward another name,” he said.

  Well, it looked as if Suurhof was going to be my problem until he was sacked or reached retirement age. And, no matter what, I would get my pension. I would not retire even one day early. Once again I swallowed defeat. I swallowed and swallowed. If my stomach were to become too paunchy because of all this swallowing, I just hoped that there was some mechanism that would expel it all. If not, I could explode into little pieces.

  “And you see from that”—and he pointed to the wall where there was a graph upon which there were no explanatory notes—“the SDI has still not troughed.”

  “Perhaps Meneer is waiting for me to say that I can’t go on with this work anymore?”

  “I am the one who can decide that, not Meneer,” said the chief commissioner. “You should examine it yourself.” He pointed again to the graph.

  I went over to look at the damned thing on the wall. There was a new line drawn in pencil, drawn somewhat hesitantly, that indicated that every time Suurhof took action against Minke, there was a big leap in the membership of the SDI.

  “A challenge,” the chief commissioner commented.

  “It’s only a provisional line anyway. It’s still in pencil,” I protested.