Child of All Nations (27 page)

He went on again. His face was turning red. On the fifth page, he put the manuscript down. He took up his pipe and began to suck on it. He blew the smoke out slowly into the air. Then: “Do you remember the person who sat on the same chair as you now sit?”

“Of course: Khouw Ah Soe.”

“Yes.”

He didn’t go on. He seemed to be groping for the right words. Why bring up Khouw Ah Soe? I became wary.

“Yes, Mr. Minke. All of a sudden I’m reminded of him. It seems you became friends with him after that meeting.”

“I never met him again after that.”

“True? As I read this, I get the feeling that you must have talked with him again.”

His words came at me like accusations. What was the connection between Trunodongso and Khouw Ah Soe? My pride in the story was overshadowed by a new fear.

“The spirit of this story—your spirit, your enthusiasm—has influenced the story too much.”

“Influenced it? How?” I asked anxiously.

He didn’t answer, but asked instead: “What were you thinking of when you wrote this?”

“What was I thinking of? The person about whom I was writing.”

“A true character or just someone out of your imagination?”

“A real person.”

“So you would dare to claim that all this here is more than just imagination? That it is factual?”

“Of course it is.”

“You would dare guarantee that?”

“Yes, I would,” I answered, once again the hero, my pride returned.

He said nothing more. He read the story again, starting from the beginning. I was still nervous about being connected that way to Khouw Ah Soe. That wouldn’t happen, would it?

Nijman stopped reading and fell into thought.

Yes, he would be impressed by this—my best writing, perfect—a protest about the injustices suffered by who knows how many thousands of Trunodongsos. I would reveal to the world the conspiracy of blood-sucking vampires who were cheating those illiterate farmers of their rents. Who could tell how many decades this deception had been going on?

Before reaching the end of the second page, Nijman raised his eyes again, looked at me very sharply, and asked: “You are the son-in-law of the late Mr. Mellema, yes? And what would your father-in-law think if he were still alive and saw what you have written here?”

My expectation that he would be impressed disappeared abruptly. On his face were signs of restrained fury.

“What’s the connection with the late Mr. Mellema?”

“You yourself know, don’t you, that he was the administrator of a sugar factory? You yourself have written: ‘And who knows for how many decades this deception has been going on?’ If it has only been twenty-five years, it means you have accused the late Mr. Mellema of carrying out such deceptions for at least four years.”

My eyes almost popped out. Such a thing had never crossed my mind. Nijman’s lips were still moving; his voice continued. “You have accused your father-in-law of being involved in a conspiracy to defraud people of their rents. And you must know the
implications of such a deception: Nyai Ontosoroh’s company, Boederij Buitenzorg, was set up with money obtained from such conspiracies. Yes? Or wasn’t that what you meant? Why are you silent? Do you still wish to say that all you have written is true? Not just fantasy?”

I was speechless. My mind worked faster and faster, but whatever I thought of, it was Mama’s face that I saw.

“Good; what you have written here is not just fantasy,” Nijman went on. His voice was soft but its lashes still hurt. “Could you prove these embezzlements if the appropriate officials demanded evidence from you?” He stared at me as though he would never blink again. “Or indeed is it your intention to publish a libel?”

“No! But these peasants—they have no place to air their grievances.”

“Nowhere to take their grievances? There are police everywhere. That’s what police are for. They can ask for protection from the police.”

“The police are closer to the factory officials than the peasants, Mr. Nijman. You must know that yourself.”

“So now you’re accusing the police of being in on the conspiracy too?” He awaited my answer. “Are you out to multiply your accusations? Look, Mr. Minke, if another person were here with us now, and he later made accusations against you, as a witness I would naturally have to recount everything that had been said. You are lucky there is no other witness here. And you’re luckier still that I am not a police official. If I were, and if I made a case of this, you would be involved in a case of libel, and you yourself, I think, would find many difficulties in obtaining both evidence and witnesses.”

Now I began to realize how dangerous it was to be a writer. But why had there been silence about this issue for so long? And why now that I was writing about peasants did Nijman no longer like my writings?

“Don’t worry,” he finally humored me. “In my opinion, this story is totally untrue, it’s just libel. This character of yours, if he does in fact exist, is a liar. You have been taken in by his lies. He’s nothing but a liar.”

My honor was offended. His words implied: You too are lying through that character of yours, Minke!

“But you know, sir, Minke is not a liar.”

“Of course you are not a liar. But a wrong original conception can give birth to many errors,” he answered. “There are no peasant farmers who have become poor as a result of renting their land to the sugar mills. They receive a fair rent. They are happy to work as plantation laborers on their own land that they have rented out.”

He was silent and I was silent. The atmosphere of enmity pressed down upon my heart.

“Do you know what the wage of a sugar-mill worker is?” Seeing that I could not answer, he went on, “At least one
talen
a day. By working for a factory just one week, he receives the equivalent of the rent he receives himself for one bahu of his land.”

At that moment, I was envious of Kommer’s skill in debate. Someone like him would easily be able to parry the attacks of this other experienced newspaper man. I was not able to do so yet. At that moment I could do nothing. I had to admit that there was still much that I had not yet learned from Trunodongso.

“You are still silent. I’m not going to do anything, sir. We are friends, yes? Your only lack is that you have not yet mastered all the material about sugar. You need to study the sugar mill’s Annual Report. The Tulangan one, in particular. Or for all of Sidoarjo, or even all of Java. Or you can study the Memorial Edition of
History of the Sugar Mills.
If you are indeed interested in these things, I will be very happy to help you.”

I could not hold back Nijman’s words with talk about justice and truth. He looked at the issue from a completely different angle. It was clear he sided with the factories, that he did not want to know who this Trunodongso was.

“And a good wage for a sugar-cane laborer, Mr. Minke: How much is that? Three talens. Someone working as a coolie, after just five days’ work, if he is a good worker, can earn the equivalent of twice the rent he receives for one bahu of land. Who says people prefer to work their own land rather than become sugar-mill coolies? What’s the price of a day’s labor hoeing? A few cents, no more than that.”

His words kept on sliding out, unstoppable, unparried. All kinds of emotions wrestled within my breast. All kinds of information about sugar came forth from his mouth: The cost of the foreman’s labor, of the employees, the cost of the hulling machinery,
the cost of the sack material and of having them sewn up, the expertise of the sugar-mill engineers, whose education was not available in every town or country.

My pride in this, my best manuscript, the most perfect of all, dissolved in disarray. My faith in myself melted. I saw myself as the most stupid of people, thoughtless, not knowing how to weigh things up, ignorant. But still I felt I was on the side of truth.

“You are a good writer, but not a good journalist. In this you have lost the beauty of writing. You are making a speech”—exactly what Kommer had said.

He didn’t read the fifth page.

“It’s a pity we have such different opinions,” I said. My hand was ready to take the manuscript from his desk.

“We don’t have different opinions, Mr. Minke. Don’t be mistaken. When you are writing about reality, you must make sure that you provide enough documentation. There are specific ways of doing that.”

“I am sure my writings do not contain errors.”

“People can believe in many things that are not right. History is indeed the story of liberation from wrong beliefs, of struggle against stupidity, against ignorance.”

He looked the other way, as if to give me the chance to regain possession of myself.

“It’s best that you keep clear of things that might end up getting you in trouble. One or two untrue explanations in the hands of an educated person could develop into some kind of general disturbance. It will be Natives who suffer in the end. Do you still remember Khouw Ah Soe? An educated young man with wrong thoughts stemming from a wrong explanation of things. He left his own country and came to make trouble here in the Indies. It was lucky the Chinese of Surabaya weren’t able to be stirred up by him. So in the end he had to suffer the consequences of his own errors. You’ve heard what happened?”

“What do you mean?”

“He was killed.”

“Khouw Ah Soe?”

“That’s who I’m talking about.”

“Where, Mr. Nijman?”

“You seem very keen to know. I can tell from that, and from your writings, that you did indeed become friends with him.” He
put his pipe down on the table; it had gone out. “If you ended up as Khouw Ah Soe did, I too would feel a loss, as would many others, Mr. Minke.”

“If you yourself experienced what Khouw Ah Soe experienced, Mr. Nijman, I would be just as keen to know what happened, even though you and I have never really been close friends.”

No doubt he knew what my answer meant: I no longer looked upon him as a teacher. I saw him now as a competitor who wanted to box me into a corner. I took my manuscript, put it in my briefcase. And, just as Khouw Ah Soe had done that day, I left his office without excusing myself.

I hired a carriage and headed straight for Jean Marais’s house. Along the journey I thought over and over again about those threat-filled words of Nijman’s. Perhaps he could do harm to me—and my story about Trunodongso could be used as evidence. He was happy, even joyful, about Khouw Ah Soe’s death. He might be equally as pleased by my own.

Quickly I took out the manuscript. Ah, my most beautiful of all works, perfect! I held it in both hands. I tore it once, twice, three times. The paper was now tiny shreds, becoming even smaller, scattered along the road.

Trunodongso, forgive me. I am not yet able!

I found Maysoroh bringing water into the kitchen. She was so happy to see me. Jean was engrossed in watching his workmen. I took him into his own workroom.

“You look upset, Minke,” he greeted me.

“You’re not wrong, Jean.”

“What trouble are you in now?”

“No, it’s this…for the first time ever, I have torn up my own writing. I scattered it over the road.” I told him everything that had happened. And I ended with: “I will never have anything to do with
Soerabaiaasch Nieuws
again. Nor with Nijman. This is the second time he’s done wrong by me.”

I waited to hear Jean’s opinion. He sat silently in his chair. He didn’t even look at me, as if my anger, my worries, my fury were of no interest to him. All he did was call May and tell her to be quicker getting dinner ready.

“Don’t you have any opinion on this, Jean?” I pressed him. “You’re siding with him because he’s European?”

He blinked, startled, and turned to stare at me. He spoke slowly: “That is just prejudice,” he said in French, then went on in Malay: “I have often tried to explain to you what prejudice is. What you just said is a kind of prejudice, color prejudice, cultural prejudice. You are educated, aren’t you?”

“Nijman is no less educated than me. He is more prejudiced. He is siding with the factories rather than with justice and what is right.”

“Just a minute, Minke. You haven’t seen how things are. Perhaps you’re right, but are unable yet to prove that you are right. I am absolutely sure you are right about the factories. Your only weakness is that you don’t have any proof. As far as the law goes, you are in the wrong. Charges could indeed be brought against you. You would be found guilty. You could not produce evidence. On the other hand, the court would definitely be able to prove you were making unsubstantiated allegations.”

“I could get the testimony of Trunodongso and others like him.”

“He has put his thumbprint to every receipt he has received. And the amounts he would have received would be exactly as written on the receipt, not a cent less.”

“But that’s where the deception lies!” my fury exploded again.

“And that is what you must prove. You must take on a new task besides that of writer; you must become a detective. If you succeed in obtaining evidence that embezzlement and deception are occurring, your writing will be of much greater value. No one will be able to reject it. That indeed is the method used by the great social writers of Europe. Behind each of their works, there is full documentation. They are not afraid of any court. It is rather the courts that are sometimes afraid of them.”

I had to listen. This kind of thing had never been taught by Magda Peters.

“They too are like you, writing to achieve a victory for humanity and justice; but your position before the law is much weaker. I hope you will be stronger. You are not in the wrong, you are in the right. It is just that your position is not yet strong
enough. Minke, you must never think that I am not on your side. I know you. And it is not just the Indies, but the whole world, that needs writers like you, writers who take positions on what they write about.”

“You know all this; why don’t you write it yourself?”

“If I could write, why would I become a painter?”

“Thank you, Jean. I understand. You are my friend.”

“Don’t be discouraged, Minke. There was no need to tear up that story. We could have studied it together. I am always happy to help you.”