The Hidden Force

1

FOURTEEN MILES FROM LABUWANGI, and thirteen miles from Ngajiwa, lay the Pajaram sugar factory, belonging to the De Luce family — half Creole, half Solo in origin — once millionaires, no longer as rich as they were because of the recent sugar crisis, but still maintaining a large household. This indissoluble family comprised: an old mother and grandmother, a Solo princess; the eldest son, an administrator; three married daughters and their husbands — employed as clerks in the business — who lived in the shadow of the factory; the numerous grandchildren playing close to the factory; the great-grandchildren germinating close to the factory. In this family old Indies traditions were preserved, which — once universal — are today becoming rarer because of more intensive contact with Europeans. The mother and grandmother was the daughter of a Solo prince, who had married a young, energetic adventurer and bohemian, Ferdinand de Luce, the scion of a noble family from Mauritius, who, after some years of roaming and searching for his niche in the world, had sailed to the Indies as a steward on board a ship, and after all kinds of vicissitudes had been stranded in Solo, where he won fame for a tomato dish and one of stuffed peppers! Ferdinand de Luce’s cooking gained him access to the Prince of Solo, whose daughter he later married, and even to the old Susuhunan. After his marriage he became a landowner, according to Solo law a vassal of the Susuhunan, to whom he sent a daily tribute of rice and fruit for the Palace household. Then he had gone into sugar, guessing the millions that a favourable destiny had in store for him. He had died before the crisis, wealthy and universally honoured.

The old grandmother, who had retained nothing of the young princess who had married Ferdinand de Luce for social advancement, was invariably approached with servile respect by the servants and the Javanese staff of the factory, and everyone gave her the title of radèn-ayu pangéran. She spoke not a word of Dutch. As wrinkled as a shrivelled fruit, with her cloudy eyes and withered, betel-stained mouth, she lived out her last years peacefully, always in a dark silk jacket, with a jewelled fastening at the neck and tight sleeves. Before her dimmed eyes flickered the vision of the former palatial greatness she had abandoned for the love of that aristocratic French cook, who had delighted her father’s taste buds with his recipes; her poor hearing caught the constant muffled whoosh of the centrifuges — like ships’ propellers — during the milling of the sugar cane, which lasted for months. Around her were her children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren; the sons and daughters called radèn and radèn-ayeng, all of them still surrounded by the pale aura of their Solo origins. The eldest daughter had married a full-blooded, blond Dutchman; the son who followed her, an Armenian girl; both the other daughters had married Eurasians, both brown-skinned, as were their children — now themselves married and with children and mingling with the blond family of the eldest daughter; and the glory of the whole family was the youngest son and brother Adrien, or Addy, who was paying court to Doddy van Oudijck, and who, despite the busy milling period, was constantly at Labuwangi.

In this family they had preserved traditions that have died out — as one remembers them in Indies families from years ago. Here one still found in the grounds on the back veranda the countless maids, one of whom does nothing but grind up rice powder, while another provides incense and a third pounds sambal for a hot sauce, all dreamy-eyed with agile, playful fingers. It was also where the succession of dishes in the rijsttafel seemed endless; where a long line of servants — one after another — solemnly served yet more varieties of vegetable sauce, yet another chicken dish, while maids ground sambal in an earthenware mortar to suit the different tastes and requirements and spoiled palates. Here it was still the custom, when the family attended the races at Ngajiwa, for each of the ladies to appear followed by a maid, moving slowly and solemnly; one maid carried a jar of rice powder, another a box of peppermints, binoculars, a fan, a bottle of perfume, like a court procession with state insignia. Here one also found old-fashioned hospitality; the row of guest rooms was open to whoever called; one could stay as long as one liked: no one asked about the purpose of your journey, or your date of departure. A great inner simplicity, an all-embracing cordiality, instinctive and innate, prevailed here alongside limitless boredom and dreariness, a complete lack of ideas, few words, but with a gentle smile making up for ideas and words; materially life was full to overflowing, all day long one was served with cool drinks and biscuits and spicy fruit salad, and three maids were assigned to make salad and biscuits. There were numerous animals in the grounds: a cage full of monkeys, a few parrots, dogs, cats, tame squirrels and a small, exquisite mouse deer that roamed free. The house, built onto the factory, and at milling time ringing with the thunder of the machines — the sound of steamship propellers — was spacious and furnished with old, outdated furniture: the low wooden beds with four carved bedposts hung with mosquito nets, the rocking chairs with very rounded backs — all the kind of things one could no longer buy, everything without a single modern feature, except — only during the meal — the electric light in the front veranda! The district commissioners, always in indoor dress, the men in white or blue stripes, the women in sarongs and jackets, looking after either monkeys or parrots or deer, in simplicity of soul, always with the same sweet pleasantness, slowly and long drawn out, and the same gentle smile. Then, once the milling season was over, and all the rush had subsided — during which the lines of sugar wagons drawn by superb oxen with gleaming brown coats had kept bringing more and more and more loads of sugar cane down the road strewn with their shreds and ruined by the wide cart tracks — and the seed for next year had been bought, and the machines were still, there was a sudden chance to relax after their unremitting toil. There came the long, long Sundays, the months of rest, the need for partying and fun. At the great dinner given by the lady of the house, with a ball and tableaux vivants, the whole house was full of visitors, both known and unknown, who stayed on and on. The old, wrinkled grandma — the lady of the house, the radèn-ayu, Mrs De Luce, whatever one wished to call her — was affable with her dulled eyes and betel-stained mouth, affable with everyone, always with an anak mas behind her — a “golden child”, a poor adopted princess — who followed her, the great princess from Solo, carrying the box of betel nuts: the child, a small slim girl of eight, with a fringe, her forehead made up with wet rice powder, round breasts already developing under the pink silk jacket and the gold miniature sarong around her narrow hips, like a doll, a toy belonging to the radèn-ayu, the dowager Mrs De Luce. And for the native villages there were popular festivals, a traditional gesture of liberality in which all Pajaram shared, according to the age-old tradition that was always observed, despite crisis or unrest.

It was relatively peaceful in the house now that the milling season and the celebrations were over, and an indolent calm had ensued. But Mrs Van Oudijck, Theo and Doddy had come over for the celebrations and were staying on at Pajaram for a few days. Seated around the marble table, on which there were glasses of syrup, lemonade and whisky soda, was a large group of people: they did not say much, but rocked contentedly up and down, occasionally exchanging a few words. Mrs De Luce and Mrs Van Oudijck spoke Malay, but very little: a gentle, good-natured boredom descended on a large number of rocking people. It was strange to see the different types: the beautiful milky-white Léonie next to the yellow, wrinkled Princess dowager; Theo, light-skinned and blond as a Dutchman with his full, sensual lips that he had inherited from his Eurasian mother; Doddy, already like a mature rose with her irises sparkling in her black pupils; the son of the director, Achille de Luce — tall, well-built, brown — whose thoughts were focused solely on his machinery and his seed; the second son, Roger — short, thin, brown — the bookkeeper, whose thoughts were focused solely on that year’s profits, with his Armenian wife; the eldest daughter, already old — stupid and ugly, brown — with her full-blooded Dutch husband, who looked like a country bumpkin. The other sons and daughters, in all shades of brown, and hard to distinguish at first glance; and around them the children, the grandchildren, the maids, the little golden foster-children, the parrots and the deer and, as if sprinkled over all these grown-ups and children and animals, the same benevolent togetherness, but also over everyone the same pride in their Solo matriarch, who caused a pale halo of Javanese aristocracy to gleam behind all their heads, and as proud as any of them were her Armenian daughter-in-law and her clodhopping Dutch son-in-law.

The liveliest of all of these elements that had merged through long cohabitation in the patriarchal seat was the youngest son, Addy, in whom the blood of the Solo princess and the French adventurer had mingled harmoniously. While it had not made him brainy, it had given him the good looks of a young Eurasian, with a Moorish touch, something southern, something Spanish. And in this youngest child the two racial elements, so far removed from each other, had for the first time been joined harmoniously, had for the first time married with complete mutual understanding — as if in him, this last child of so many, the adventurer and the princess had met in harmony for the first time. Addy appeared to have no imagination or intellect to speak of, and was incapable of stringing together two ideas to make a coherent train of thought; all he felt was the vague benevolence that had descended on the whole family, and apart from that he was like a beautiful animal that had degenerated spiritually and mentally, degenerated into one big emptiness. His body had become like a resurrection of racial perfection, full of strength and beauty, while his marrow and his blood and his flesh and his muscles had developed into a harmony of physical attraction, so utterly, mindlessly, beautifully sensual that the harmony had an immediate appeal for women. The young man had only to appear, like a beautiful southern god, for every woman’s eyes to be on him, and absorb him deep into their imaginations so they could later summon him up in their mind’s eye; the young man had only to come to a ball after the races at Ngajiwa for all the young girls to fall in love with him. He plucked love wherever he found it, and he found it particularly abundant in the villages around Pajaram. Every woman was in love with him, from his mother to his little nieces. Doddy van Oudijck worshipped him. She had been in love hundreds of times since the age of seven, with anyone whom she spied with her bright eyes, but never before as she was with Addy. It radiated so strongly from her that it was like a flame everyone could see, and that made them smile. For her, the milling party had been one round of enchantment… when she danced with him; one round of torture… when he danced with anyone else. He had not proposed, but she was thinking of proposing to him, and dying if he refused. She knew that her father, the Commissioner, was opposed; he did not like the De Luce family, that Solo-French crowd, as he called them. But if Addy wanted to, her father would give in, because otherwise she, Doddy, would die. For this child of love, the young Eros was the whole world, the universe, life itself. He courted her, kissed her secretly on the lips, but no more than in the thoughtless way he did with others; he kissed other girls, too. If he was allowed to, he went further, quite naturally, like a devastating young god, an unthinking god. But he still had some respect for the commissioner’s daughter. He had neither courage nor impudence, and lacked much passion in his choices, seeing women as women and so sated with conquest that obstacles were not a stimulus. His garden was full of flowers, all of which strained towards him; he stretched out his hand almost without seeing, and just plucked.

While they rocked around the table, they saw him approaching through the garden and every woman’s eyes were trained on him as on a young seducer arriving in the sunshine, which was like a radiant garland around him. The dowager radèn-ayu smiled and looked at her youngest son with love, her favourite. Behind her, squatting on the ground, the golden foster-child peered wide-eyed; the sisters peered, the nieces peered, Doddy peered, and Léonie van Oudijck’s milk-white complexion was tinged with a pink shade that merged with the glow of her smile. Automatically she glanced at Theo and their eyes met. And these souls that were all burning love — their eyes, mouths, flesh — understood each other, and Theo’s jealousy blazed so fiercely in her direction that the pink shade faded and she turned pale and was afraid, with a sudden unreasoning, shuddering fear that pierced her usual indifference, while the Seducer, in his halo of sunshine, came closer and closer…

2

MRS VAN OUDIJCK had promised to stay on for a few days in Pajaram, and in fact she was rather apprehensive, not feeling quite at home in these old-fashioned Indies surroundings. But when Addy appeared, she changed her mind. Deep in her heart this woman worshipped her sensuality, as if in the temple of her selfishness this milky-white Creole woman sacrificed all the intimacy of her rose-tinted imagination to her unquenchable desire, and in that worship she had arrived at an art, a knowledge, a science, of ascertaining with a single glance what attracted her in any man who was approaching her, who walked past her. With one it was his bearing, his voice; with another it was the curve of his neck on his shoulders; in a third it was his hand on his knee; but whatever it was, she saw it at once, at a glance. She knew instantly, in a trice. She had weighed up the passer-by in a fraction of a second and she knew at once whom she rejected — and that was the majority — and those she deemed worthy — and they were many. And those whom she rejected in that split second in her own supreme court, with that one glance, in that one instant, could abandon all hope: she, the priestess, would never admit them to the temple. For others the temple was open, but only behind the screen of her decorum. However shameless she might be, she was always decorous, and love was always secret; for the world she was nothing but the charming, smiling Commissioner’s wife, somewhat indolent, who won everyone over with her smile. When people did not see her, they spoke ill of her; once they saw her, she immediately captivated them. Among all those with whom she had shared the secret of her love, there existed a kind of freemasonry, a mysterious cult: whenever two of them met in passing they would exchange no more than a few whispered words about the same memory. And Léonie, milky-white, could sit calmly in a large circle around a marble table where at least two or three men had been initiated into the secret. It did not ruffle her composure or dim her smile. She smiled ad nauseam. She would barely glance from one to the other, while she briefly reappraised them, with her infallible judgement. She had scarcely any recollection of past time spent with them, scarcely any thought of the next day’s assignation. It was the secret that existed only in the mystery of intimacy, and was therefore never divulged in the profane world. If in the circle a foot sought to touch hers, she would withdraw hers. She never flirted, indeed she was sometimes rather dull, stiff, prim and smiling. In the freemasonry between the initiates and herself, she revealed the mystery, but in the eyes of the world, in the circles round the marble tables, she did not give so much as a glance, a handshake, and her dress did not so much as approach a trouser leg.

She had been bored during these days at Pajaram after accepting the invitation to the milling celebrations, which she had declined in previous years, but now that she saw Addy approaching, she was no longer bored. Of course she had known him for years and had seen him grow from a child to a boy to a man, and she had even kissed him occasionally as a boy. She had been weighing him up for a long time, the Seducer. But now he approached with his halo of sunshine, she appraised him once more: his handsome, slim, animal quality and the glow of his Seducer’s eyes in the shadowy brown of his young Moor’s face, the curling swell of his lips, made just for kissing, with the young down of his moustache, the tigerish strength and suppleness of his Don Juan’s limbs. It all blazed out at her and made her blink. As he said hello and sat down, scattering cheerful words round the circle filled with languorous conversation and sleepy thoughts — as if showering a handful of his sunshine, his gold dust, over them all, over all those women: his mother and sisters and nieces and Doddy and Léonie — Léonie looked at him, just as they all looked at him, and her gaze moved to his hands. She could have kissed those hands; she suddenly fell in love with the shape of his fingers, with the brown tigerish strength of his palms. She fell instantly in love with all the wild animal quality that exuded from the young man’s every pore like a scent of virility. She could feel her blood pulsing, scarcely controllable, despite her great skill at remaining cool and decorous in the circles round the marble tables. But she was no longer bored. She had an aim for the next few days. Yet…her blood was pulsing so violently that Theo had seen her blush and the trembling of her eyelids. Loving her as he did, his eyes had seen right through her. And when they went for the rijsttafel on the back veranda, where the maids were already squatting to grind everyone’s hot spices according to the individual tastes, he shot just two words at her under his breath:

“Be careful!”

She started, feeling he was threatening her. That had never happened before; all those who had shared in the mystery had always shown her respect. She was so shocked, so indignant at that touching of the temple curtain — on a veranda full of people — that her calm indifference was set churning and her eternally carefree tranquillity was roused to revolt. But she looked at him — blond, broad-shouldered, tall, a younger version of her husband, his Indies blood revealing itself only in the sensuality of his mouth — and she did not want to lose him: she wanted to keep this type of man alongside the Moorish Seducer. She wanted them both; she wanted to savour the difference between their male attraction, the Dutch blond-and-white kind with the merest trace of Indies blood, and Addy’s feral attraction. Her soul trembled, her blood trembled, as the long succession of dishes circulated ceremoniously. She was in more turmoil than she had ever been. Awakening from her placid indifference was like a rebirth, an unknown emotion. She found it bewildering to be thirty, and to feel it for the first time. A feverish wickedness blossomed in her, like the overpowering scent of red flowers. She looked at Doddy sitting next to Addy; the poor child could scarcely eat, she was aglow with love… Oh, the Seducer, he had only to appear!.. And Léonie, in her fever of wickedness, rejoiced at being the rival of her much younger stepdaughter… She would look after her, she would even warn Van Oudijck. Would it ever come to a marriage? What did marriage matter to her, Léonie?! Oh, the Seducer! She had never dreamt of him so in her pink siesta hours! This was not the charm of cherubs, this was the pungent smell of tiger-like attraction; the golden sparkle of his eyes, the muscular suppleness of his prowling paws… And she smiled at Theo with a look of self-surrender: a great rarity among the circle of people eating their rice. Normally she never gave herself away in public. Now she yielded for a second, happy that Theo was jealous. She was passionately fond of him. She loved the fact that he looked pale and angry with jealousy. Around her, the sunny afternoon glowed and the sambal was irritating her dry palate. There were small beads of sweat on her temples, and on her breasts under the lace of her jacket. She would have liked to hug them both at once, Theo and Addy, in a single embrace, in a mixture of different sorts of lust, clutching them both to a body made for love…

3

THAT NIGHT was like a downy cloud of velvet, descending languidly from the sky. The moon in its first quarter appeared as a small crescent, like a Turkish half moon, from the tips of which the unlit side of the disc was vaguely visible in outline against the sky… A long avenue of cemara trees led away from the front of the house, with straight trunks and foliage like unravelled plush and frayed velvet standing out like tufts of cotton wool against the low clouds, which heralded the approaching monsoon a month in advance. Wood pigeons cooed intermittently and a tokay gecko called, first with two rattling preliminary notes, as if in preparation, and then with his call, repeated four or five times:

“Tokay, tokay!..” at first powerful, then dipping and weakening…

The nightwatchman out front on the main road, where the sleeping market lay with its now empty stalls, struck eleven strokes on his hollow block of wood, and when a belated cart came by he shouted in a hoarse voice, “Who goes there?”

The night was a canopy of soft velvet, descending languidly from the sky, like an abundant mystery, a frightening future threat. But in that mystery, beneath the plucked black tufts of cotton wool, the frayed plush of the cemaras was like an inescapable summons to love in the windless night, like a whispered exhortation not to let this moment pass… True, the tokay kept pestering with its drily comic call, and the nightwatchman startled everyone with his “Who goes there?”, but the wood pigeons cooed softly and the whole night was like an eiderdown, like one great alcove curtained by the plush of the cemaras, while the sultriness of the distant rain clouds — which had been on the horizon all month — swirled around with an oppressive magic. Mystery and enchantment floated through the downy night, descending into the alcove where twilight was falling, melting away all thought and spirit, and presenting warm visions to the senses…

The tokay was silent, the night attendant nodded off: the velvety night reigned over all, like an enchantress crowned with the crescent moon. They approached slowly, two youthful figures, arms around each other’s waists, mouth seeking mouth with rapturous compulsion. Their forms were shadowy under the unravelled velvet of the cemaras, and in their white clothes they emerged as the eternal pair of lovers, always the same, everywhere. Here especially, the pair of lovers was inevitable in the magical night, seemed to be one with the night, summoned by the ruling enchantress; here it was predestined, blossoming as a double flower of fateful love, in the muffled mystery of the compelling skies.

And the Seducer seemed like the son of that inexorable queen of the night, who swept the weak girl along. To her ears the night seemed to be singing with his voice; her little soul melted, full of its own weakness amid the magical powers. She walked touching his side, feeling the warmth of his body penetrating her yearning maidenhood; her liquid gaze enveloped him with the longings of her sparkling irises, diamond-like against her black pupils. He, drunk with the power of the night — the enchantress that resembled his mother — was at first determined to take her further. Losing sight of all reality, losing all respect for her, unafraid of anyone, he was determined to take her further, past the night watchman who was nodding off, across the main road into the native quarter that was hidden away among the stately plumes of the coconut palms, a canopy for their love — to take her to a hideaway, a house he knew, a bamboo hut, which they would open up for him.

Suddenly she stopped, gripped his arm and pressed even closer to him and begged him not to. She was afraid…

“Why?” he asked softly, with his silky-smooth voice, as deep and downlike as the night. Why not tonight, tonight at last, there would be no danger…

But she trembled, shuddered and begged: “Addy, Addy, no… no… I don’t dare go any further… I’m frightened the attendant will see us, and look… there he is… a haji in a white turban…”

He looked towards the road. On the other side awaited the village under the canopy of coconut palms, with the bamboo hut that they would open up…

“A pilgrim?… Where, Doddy? I can’t see anyone…”

“He was walking down the road, he looked round, he saw us, I saw his eyes glittering and he went behind those trees into the village…”

“Darling, I didn’t see anything…”

“He was there, he was there. I don’t dare, Addy. Please, let’s go back!”

His handsome Moorish face clouded: he could already see the hut being opened by the old woman, whom he knew and who adored him as all women adored him, from his mother to his little nieces.

And once again he tried to persuade her, but she refused, and stopped and would not move an inch. Then they went back, and the clouds were even sultrier, low on the horizon, and the soft, blanketing night was as dense as snow, only warm; the ragged outlines of the cemaras were blacker and fuller. The dim shape of the mansion appeared, unlit, deeply asleep. And he begged her, he implored her not to leave him that night, that he would die that night without her… She was on the point of giving in, and promising, with her arms round his neck… when she started again and again cried out: “Addy… Addy… there, again… that white figure!..”

“You seem to be seeing pilgrims everywhere!” he said sarcastically.

“Well, look then…”

He looked, and really did see a white figure approaching along the front veranda. But it was a woman.

“Mama!” cried Doddy in alarm.

It was indeed Léonie, and she came slowly towards them.

“Doddy,” she said softly. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. I was so frightened. I didn’t know where you were. Why do you go for walks so late at night? Addy…” she continued, with motherly affection, as if speaking to two children. “How can you be so silly, out walking with Doddy so late. You really mustn’t do it again! I know it’s nothing, but what if someone saw you! Will you promise me never to do it again?”

She entreated them sweetly, in engagingly reproachful tones; implying that she understood very well that they were burning with love for each other in the magical, velvety night, and by her tone of voice immediately forgiving them. She looked like an angel, with her round, white face set amid the loose wavy hair, in the white silk kimono that hung around her in supple folds. And she pulled Doddy towards her, and kissed the child, and wiped her tears away. Then, gently, she pushed Doddy away, to her room in the outbuildings, where she slept safely among so many rooms full of daughters and grandchildren of the old Mrs De Luce. And as Doddy left for the loneliness of that room, weeping softly, Léonie went on talking to Addy, gently reproaching him, then again warning him sweetly like a sister, while he, a handsome brown Moor, stood there before her shyly, putting a brave face on it. They were in the dim light of the front veranda; the night air perfumed the irresistible clouds of sensuality, of love, of muffled mystery. She reproached and warned and said that Doddy was a child, and he must not take advantage of her… He shrugged his shoulders, defended himself, putting a brave face on it; his words struck her like gold dust, his eyes sparkled like a tiger’s. Persuading him to spare poor Doddy in future, she took his hand — his hand that she adored — his fingers, his palm, which this morning, in her confusion, she could have kissed — and she squeezed that hand and was almost in tears, and begged him to spare Doddy… He suddenly realized, and flashed his wild-animal look at her and saw her beauty and her female attraction, milky-white, and he knew she was a priestess with secret knowledge… And he also spoke of Doddy, coming closer to her, feeling her touch, pressing her two hands between his, making her understand that he understood. And still pretending to weep and implore, she led him away and opened the door to her room. He saw a faint light and her maid, Urip, who went out through the front door and settled down to sleep outside on a mat like a faithful animal. Then she laughed in greeting, and he, the Seducer, was amazed at the warmth of the smile of this white blond seductress, who threw off her silk kimono and stood before him like a statue, naked, arms open wide…

Urip, outside, listened for a moment. And she was about to settle down to sleep, dreaming of the lovely sarongs that her mistress would give her tomorrow, when she suddenly started and saw a haji with a white turban walk across the compound and disappear into the night.

4

THAT DAY the Prince of Ngajiwa, the younger brother of Sunario, was to pay a visit to Pajaram, since Mrs Van Oudijck was leaving the following day. Everyone was waiting for him on the front veranda, rocking around the marble table, when his carriage rattled into the long avenue of cemaras. They all stood up. And now, especially, it was apparent how highly regarded the old dowager was, how closely related she was to the Susuhunan himself, since the Prince got out and, without taking one step further, squatted by the first step to the front veranda and respectfully made the sign of the semba, bringing his hands with fingertips touching up to his head, while behind his back a retainer, holding up the closed gold-and-white sunshade like a furled sun, made himself still smaller and shrank to nothing. The old woman, the Solo princess, who saw the palace glittering before her eyes once again, approached him, bade the Prince welcome in the courteous tones of palace Javanese — the language used between royal equals — until the Prince rose up, and the family approached behind the old woman. The way in which he then politely greeted the Commissioner’s wife was almost condescending compared with his servility of a moment ago… He then sat down between Mrs De Luce and Mrs Van Oudijck, and a leisurely conversation ensued. The Prince of Ngajiwa was very different from his brother Sunario: taller, coarser, without the latter’s shadow-puppet quality. Although younger, he looked older, his features engrained with passion, his eyes burning with passion: for women, for wine, for opium, and, especially, passion for gambling. Silent thoughts seemed to light up that leisurely, languid conversation, without ideas and with so few words, constantly punctuated by the polite “yes, yes” behind which they all hid their secret longing… They spoke Malay, since Mrs Van Oudijck did not dare speak Javanese, that refined, difficult language, full of nuances of etiquette, which few Dutch people ventured to use with a high-ranking Javanese. They said little, but rocked gently; a vague courteous smile indicated that they were all involved in the conversation, even though only Mrs De Luce exchanged the occasional word… Until finally the De Luces — the old mother, her son Roger and the brown daughters-in-law — could no longer contain themselves, even in front of Mrs Van Oudijck, and laughed in embarrassment, while drinks and cake were served and until, despite their politeness, they quickly conferred with a few words of Javanese, over Léonie’s head, and the old mama, no longer able to control herself, finally asked her if she would mind if they played a hand or two of cards. Despite themselves, they all looked at her, the District Commissioner’s wife, the wife of the representative of Dutch power, who they knew hated their gambling, their ruin, which claimed the highest Javanese dynasties, whom the Commissioner wished to sustain. But she, being too indifferent, wouldn’t dream of preventing them with a tactful jocular word, for her husband’s sake: she, the slave of her own passion, allowed them to be enslaved by theirs, and to revel in it. She simply smiled and was quite happy for the gamblers to retire to the twilight of the wide, square inner gallery, the ladies now greedily counting their money in their handkerchiefs, alternating with the men, until they were all sitting close together, eyes glued to the cards, sneaking glances at each other and playing endlessly — winning, losing, paying or collecting their winnings, opening the handkerchief full of money for a second and then closing it again, without a word, only the rustle of the small square cards in the twilight of the inner gallery. Were they playing vingt-et-un or the native game of setoter? Léonie had no idea, being indifferent, far from sharing that passion, and glad that Addy stayed sitting next to her and Theo looking jealously at him. Did he know? Did he suspect something? Would Urip keep her mouth shut? She revelled in the emotion and wanted them both, white and brown, and the fact that Doddy was now sitting on the other side of Addy, rocking almost in a swoon, caused her intense and wicked pleasure. What else was there in life but to abandon oneself to the urge of one’s sensual longings? She had no ambition, was indifferent to her high position; she, the first lady in the district, who delegated her responsibilities to Eva Eldersma, and to whom it meant nothing that hundreds of people at the receptions in Labuwangi, Ngajiwa and elsewhere greeted her with the kind of ceremony reminiscent of a royal audience — who secretly, in her perverse, pink daydreams, with a novel by Mendès in her hands, scoffed at provincial exaggeration, in which the wife of a district commissioner can be a queen. She had no other ambition but to possess the man she deemed worthy of her choice; no other spiritual life than the cult of her body, like an Aphrodite acting as her own priestess. What did she care if they were playing cards in there, or if the Prince of Ngajiwa ruined himself! On the other hand, she found it important to observe the traces of that ruin in his ravaged face and resolved to take even better care of herself. To have Urip massage her face and limbs, to have her prepare even more of the white liquid rice powder, the wonder cream, the magic ointment of which Urip knew the secret and which kept the skin firm, white and as wrinkle-free as a mangosteen. She found it fascinating to see the Prince of Ngajiwa burning up like a candle, his mind dulled by women, wine, opium, cards — perhaps most of all by cards, from peering stupefied at them, gambling, calculating odds that could not be calculated, calculating superstitiously, working out according to the traditional petangan almanacs the day and time when he must play in order to win, the required number of players, the amount of his stake… Now and then she stole a glance at the players in the inner gallery, shrouded in twilight and greed, and she thought of what Van Oudijck would say and how angry he would be if she told him about it… What difference did it make to him whether that royal family was ruined? What did she care about his policies, or Dutch policies in general, which are so keen to maintain the high reputation of the Javanese nobility, through whom they rule the population? What did she care if Van Oudijck, thinking of the noble old pangéran, was saddened by the visible decline of his children? None of this mattered to her, all that mattered to her was herself and Addy and Theo. She had decided to tell her stepson, her blond lover, that afternoon not to be so jealous. It was becoming noticeable, she was sure that Doddy could see it. Hadn’t she saved the poor child from herself yesterday? But how long would that warning last? Would it not be better if she warned Van Oudijck, like a good, careful mother?… Her thoughts roamed languidly; the morning was boiling, in those last scorching days of the east monsoon, when the limbs are covered in beads of sweat. Her body trembled and, leaving Doddy with Addy, she carried Theo off, and reproached him for looking so jealous. He seethed with anger, red-faced, clenching his fists, then imploring, then almost weeping with impotent rage. She became rather angry and asked him what he wanted…

They had gone around the side of the house, into the long side veranda; there were caged monkeys with banana skins strewn around them from the fruit the creatures had eaten, fed to them by the grandchildren.

The gong for the rijsttafel had already sounded twice, and on the back veranda the maids were already squatting and preparing everyone’s spices. But around the gaming table people seemed deaf. The whispering voices grew louder and harsher, and both Léonie and Theo pricked up their ears. A sudden quarrel seemed to have flared up, despite Mrs De Luce’s attempts to smooth things over between Roger and the Prince. They spoke Javanese, but had abandoned all politeness. They were yelling at each other like coolies, accusing each other of cheating. They heard the repeated attempts of the old Mrs De Luce to calm things down, supported by her daughters and daughters-in-law. But chairs were roughly pushed back, a glass broke, and Roger appeared to throw down the cards in anger. All the women inside called for calm in high-pitched voices, muted voices, whispering, with little exclamations, little cries of indulgence and indignation. All over the house the countless servants listened. Then the argument subsided: long, angry declarations continued to flare up between the Prince and Roger; the women tried to shush them, embarrassed by the presence of the District Commissioner’s wife, looking to see where she might be. And things finally quietened down and they resumed their seats in silence, hoping that the quarrel had not been too audible. Until finally, very late — getting on for three o’clock in the afternoon — the old Mrs De Luce, the passion for gambling still gleaming in her dulled eyes, yet summoning up all her princess’s prestige, came onto the front veranda as if nothing had happened and asked whether Mrs Van Oudijck would care to join them for lunch.

5

YES, THEO KNEW. After lunch he had talked to Urip and although at first the maid had tried to deny everything, frightened of losing the sarongs, she had not been able to keep up the pretence, merely protesting weakly: “No, no…” Early that same afternoon, he had called on Addy, raging with jealousy. But the untroubled composure of the handsome young man with the Moorish face had calmed him down, so sated with all his conquests that he himself never felt jealousy. He had been placated by the total absence of any kind of thought in the Seducer, who had forgotten everything instantly, after his hour of love, and had looked up with naive astonishment when Theo, red-face, seething with rage, had entered his room and stood in front of his bed — where he lay completely naked, as was his habit during his siesta, young and magnificent as bronze, sublime as a classical statue — and declared that he would punch him in the face… And Addy’s amazement had been so artless, so harmonious in its indifference, so totally did he appear to have forgotten last night’s hour or so of love, so calmly had he laughed at the idea of fighting over a woman, that Theo had calmed down and sat on the edge of Addy’s bed. Addy — a few years younger, but with his unparalleled experience — had said to him that he really mustn’t do that again, get so angry because of a woman: mistresses gave themselves to others. And Addy had patted him sympathetically on the shoulder, almost paternally, because they now understood each other, and had talked and listened to each other in confidence. They confided other secrets to each other, about women and girls. Theo asked if Addy planned to marry, but Addy said that he wasn’t thinking of marriage, and the Commissioner would not approve anyway, since he did not approve of the De Luces and considered them too Indies in their ways. In passing, he indicated his pride in his Solo origins, and his pride in the halo that shone palely behind the heads of all the De Luces. Then Addy asked Theo if he knew that there was a brother of his in the native village. Theo knew nothing about it, but Addy assured him: a son of his papa, from the time when the old man had been controller in Ngajiwa; a man of their age, gone completely native; the mother was dead. Perhaps the old man didn’t know himself that he had a child living in the native village, but it was true, everyone knew; the Prince knew, the Prince’s counsellor knew, the native district official knew, the most humble coolie knew. There was no conclusive proof, but something that was known by the whole world was as true as the existence of the world. What did the fellow do? Nothing but curse, maintaining he was the son of the Lord Commissioner who was leaving him to rot in the native quarter. What did he live on? On nothing, on what he begged brazenly, on what he was given, and apart from that… on all kinds of practices: by going round the districts, through all the villages, asking if there were any complaints and drawing up petitions; by urging people to go to Mecca and book their passages on very cheap steamship lines, for which he was a freelance agent. He went to the furthest village and showed them advertising posters depicting a steamship full of pilgrims to Mecca, and the Kaaba and the Sacred Tomb of the Holy Prophet. So he pottered about, often involved in fights, and once in a robbery, sometimes dressed in a sarong, sometimes in an old striped cotton suit, and sleeping where he could. And when Theo showed surprise, maintaining that he had never heard a word about that half-brother, and was curious, Addy suggested going to see him, if he was perhaps to be found in the native quarter.

Addy, in a cheerful mood, quickly had his bath, changed into a fresh white suit, and they went along the road past the paddy fields into the native quarter. It was already growing dark under the huge trees: the banana plants raised their leaves like fresh green oars, and under the stately canopy of the coconut palms nestled the bamboo houses, poetically Oriental, idyllic with their thatched roofs, the doors usually closed and, if they were open, framing a small black interior with a vague outline of a sleeping bench with a darkening figure squatting on it. The mangy dogs barked; the children, naked, with bells attached to their bellies, ran away and peered from the houses. The women remained calm when they recognized the Seducer, and laughed, blinking as he passed in all his glory. Addy pointed out the house where his old nursemaid Tijem lived, the woman who helped him, who always opened her door to him whenever he needed her hut, who worshipped him, just as his mother adored him and his sisters and little nieces. He showed Theo the house and thought of last night’s walk with Doddy, under the cemaras. Tijem the nursemaid saw him and came towards him in delight. She squatted down by him, hugged his leg to her withered breast, rubbed her forehead against his knee, then she kissed his white shoe and looked at him as if enraptured: her handsome prince, her radèn, whom she had rocked to sleep as a chubby little boy, already in love as she held him in her arms. He patted her on the shoulder, gave her two and a half guilders, and asked if she knew where si-Oudijck was, as his brother wanted to see him.

Tijem got up and beckoned them to follow her. It was a long walk. They left the native quarter and found themselves on an open road along which lay rails and the bamboo baskets in which sugar was transported to the boats lying ready there at a jetty on the River Brantas. The sun was setting, in a huge fan-shaped display of orange rays; the distant lines of trees were like dark, plump velvet blurred in the splendid glow, marking the limit of the paddy fields that were not yet planted, the gloomy land lying fallow. A few men and women issued from the factory on their way home. At the river, beneath a sacred banyan tree consisting of five intertwined trunks with an extensive root system, a small market with portable kitchens had been set up. Tijem called the ferryman and he took them across the orange-tinted Brantas, the last light of the sun fanning out like a peacock’s tail. Once they reached the other side, night descended hurriedly with curtains of mist, and the clouds, which all through that November had been threatening on the low horizons, created an oppressive, sultry atmosphere. And they entered another native quarter, illuminated here and there by a paraffin lamp. Until they finally came to a house made half of bamboo, half of Devoe crates, and covered half in tiles, half in thatch. Tijem pointed and, again crouching to hug and kiss Addy’s knee, she asked his leave to go back. Addy knocked on the door: there was the sound of some grumbling and stumbling, but when Addy called out the door was opened with a single kick and the two young men entered the only room in the house — half bamboo, half wood from crates. There was a sleeping bench with a few dirty cushions in a corner, in front of which dangled a limp, chintz curtain, plus a rickety table and a pair of chairs, a paraffin lamp without a globe on it on the table, and small household items cluttered on a crate in a corner. A sour opium smell permeated everything.

And at the table sat si-Oudijck with an Arab, while a Javanese woman squatted on a sleeping couch, preparing herself some betel. The half-caste hurriedly screwed up some sheets of paper lying on the table between them, visibly annoyed at the unexpected visit. But he soon recovered and put on a jovial air, calling out: “Well, Prince, Susuhunan! Sultan of Pajaram! Sugar Baron! How are you, handsome one, ladies’ man?”

His jovial torrent of greetings went on and on, as he gathered the papers together and signalled to the Arab, who promptly disappeared through the other door at the back.

“And who have you got with you, Lord Adrianus, pretty Lucius?…”

“Your brother,” replied Addy.

Si-Oudijck suddenly looked up.

“Well, well,” he said, speaking a mixture of broken Dutch, Javanese and Malay. I recognize him, my legitimate brother. And what has the fellow come for?”

“Just to see what you look like…”

The two brothers surveyed each other, Theo with curiosity, pleased to have made this discovery as a weapon to be used against the old man, if such a weapon should ever be necessary; the other, si-Oudijck, keeping hidden within himself — behind his shrewd brown leering face — all his jealousy, bitterness and hatred.

“Do you live here?” asked Theo, just for something to say.

“No, I’m staying with her for the moment,” answered si-Oudijck nodding towards the woman.

“Did your mother die a long time ago?”

“Yes. Yours is still alive, isn’t she? She’s in Batavia. I know her. Do you ever see her?”

“No.”

“Hmm… Do you like your stepmother better?”

“We get on all right,” said Theo drily. “I don’t think the old man knows you exist.”

“Oh, yes, he does.”

“No, I don’t think so. Have you ever talked to him?”

“Yes. In the past. Years ago.”

“And?…”

“Did no good. He says I’m not his son…”

“It’s probably difficult to prove.”

“Legally, yes. But it’s a fact, common knowledge. Known all over Ngajiwa.”

“Have you no proof at all?”

“Only my mother’s oath on her deathbed, before witnesses.”

“Come on, tell me a bit more. Come for a walk with us, it’s stuffy in here…”

They left the hut and strolled back through the native quarters, while si-Oudijck talked. They walked along the Brantas, which wound along in the dim evening light under a sprinkling of stars.

It did Theo good to hear about this, about his father’s housekeeper when he was just a controller, rejected after being unjustly accused of unfaithfulness: the child born later and never recognized, never supported; the boy, roaming from one native quarter to another, romantically proud of his degenerate father, whom he observed from afar, following with his leering gaze as that father became an assistant commissioner and then a commissioner, married, divorced, remarried; occasionally learning to read and write after a fashion from a native clerk with whom he was on friendly terms… It did the legitimate son good to hear this, because deep down, however blond and white he might be, he was more the son of his Eurasian mother than his father’s son; because deep down he hated his father, not for any specific reason, but because of a secret instinctive antipathy, because, despite his appearance and demeanour of a blond, white-skinned European, he felt a secret affinity with this illegitimate brother, felt a vague sympathy for him, since they were both sons of the same motherland, with which their father had no emotional ties except those he had acquired during his training: the artificial, humanely cultivated love of the rulers for the land they ruled. Since childhood Theo had felt like this, far removed from his father; and later that antipathy had become a smouldering hatred. He enjoyed hearing his father’s irreproachable reputation being demolished: a high-minded man, a senior official of absolute integrity, who loved his family, who loved his district, who loved the Javanese, who wanted to support the Prince’s family — not only because his instructions set out in the Government Gazette required him to respect the position of the Javanese nobility, but because his own heart spoke to his, whenever he remembered the noble old pangéran… Theo knew, of course, that his father was like that — so exalted, so noble, that he had such integrity — and it did him good, in the mystery-filled evening by the Brantas, to hear that irreproachable character, that exalted, noble integrity being picked apart; it did him good to meet an outcast who in an instant had covered that high and mighty father figure in slime and filth, torn him from his pedestal, brought him down to the abject level of everyone else — sinful, evil, heartless, ignoble. He felt a wicked joy in his heart, like the one felt at possessing the wife that his father adored. He did not yet know what to do with that dark secret, but he accepted it as a weapon; he sharpened it that evening, as he listened to the half-caste with his leer, who became worked up and started ranting. And Theo put away his secret in a safe place, storing his weapon deep inside. Old grievances came to the surface, and he, too, the legitimate son, launched into a tirade against his father, admitted that the Commissioner no longer tried to gain advancement for his son, any more than he would for any clerk: that he had once recommended him to the managers of an impossible company, a rice plantation, where he, Theo, had not been able to stand it for more than a month, that he had left Theo to his fate, was obstructive when he tried to obtain concessions, even in districts other than Labuwangi, even in Borneo, until he had been forced to kick his heels and live on charity, finding no work because of his father’s attitude, tolerated in that house where he hated everything.

“Except your stepmother!” si-Oudijck interjected drily.

But Theo went on, giving vent to his feelings in turn and telling his brother that even if he was recognized and legitimized, things would still be pretty lean. In this way they egged each other on, glad to have met and to have become friends for this brief hour. Next to them walked Addy, amazed at this rapid sympathy but, apart from that, without a thought in his head. They had crossed a bridge and via a detour had arrived behind the factory buildings at Pajaram. Here si-Oudijck took his leave from them, shaking Theo’s hand, which slipped him a few two-and-a-half-guilder coins that were eagerly accepted, with a flicker of the furtive look but without a word of thanks. And Theo and Addy headed past the now silent factory towards the mansion, where the family were walking around outside in the garden and in the avenue of cemaras. And as the two young men approached, the eight-year-old golden child, the old mama’s foster-princess, came to meet them, with her fringe and her rice-powdered forehead, in her sumptuous doll’s clothes. She walked towards them, suddenly stopping when she reached Addy and looking up at him. Addy asked what she wanted but the child didn’t reply, just looked up at him, and then, stretching out her hand, she stroked his hand with hers. Some obviously irresistible magnetism had drawn the shy child to him, making her walk up to them, stop and stroke him, so that Addy laughed out loud, bent down and kissed her light-heartedly. The child skipped away contentedly. And Theo, still worked up from that afternoon — first by his conversation with Urip, then by his confrontation with Addy, his meeting with his half-brother, the confidences about his father — feeling bitter and full of his own problems, was so irritated by the trivial behaviour of Addy and the little girl, that he exclaimed, almost angrily: “You’re hopeless… you’ll never be anything but a ladykiller!”