Lunch with the Generals

by Derek Hansen

  His head pounded and his breath rasped in his throat. He heard tins fall and bottles break, and men cry out in agony. But it meant little to him. There were only his choking sobs as he fought for breath, and the skull-splitting pounding inside his head. He gagged and vomited, the bile and his partially digested dinner stung his throat, yet somehow helped him regain his grasp on reality. He sensed light and opened his eyes.

  The captain knelt over him, examining him with the help of a paraffin lamp.

  ‘Ah. So our guest still lives. Do not worry, that dog will trouble you no more.’

  Someone was helping him up into a sitting position. He felt himself being lifted as easily as a baby. He turned to his benefactor and gazed into a face burning with hate and malice. He recoiled instinctively, unable to help himself.

  ‘Do not worry, my friend,’ soothed the captain, ‘that dog will not trouble anybody any more. He has gone from us. He is swimming to Java.’

  One-Eye gently propped Jan up against the wall of the cabin and handed him his canteen.

  ‘He was not a regular member of my crew,’ continued the captain evenly. ‘He was not even my nephew. He was the son of the man my sister married. He was always trouble. I only took him on to oblige my sister. It was always going to end this way. The sea is a hard life. Men are always being lost overboard. Ha! He was not even a good cook.’

  The incident was never mentioned again. At meal times five bowls were put out, and Jan’s enamel plate was not called upon again. Life aboard slipped easily back into its timeless routine. Jan volunteered himself for the afternoon watch but, as it turned out, it was a hollow gesture.

  Perhaps it was the warm fellowship of the Buginese that made him careless. Or the relief he felt in the knowledge that he could now trust them absolutely. He shared their food, and now that he had exhausted his canteen, he shared their water. Perhaps he thought their water was safe enough to drink unboiled. But before lunchtime of the second day at sea, the hot iron fist took hold of his stomach and squeezed.

  At first the crew had laughed when he made a dash for the hole in the planking of the overhanging stern which acted as a toilet. But his visits became so frequent that he discarded his khaki shorts and took to wrapping a sarong around his waist. He learned to use his left hand, like a good Muslim should, in the absence of any alternative. His stomach continually cramped with pain, and the constant scouring inflamed his anus which was further irritated by the chillies he had eaten.

  Loss of fluid was his main concern. He was sweating profusely. He was aware of the pain in the back of his head which warned of dehydration. He begged the captain to boil up some water, which he did. When it cooled, the captain filled Jan’s canteen and placed it by his side.

  ‘You must sip this water,’ he said to Jan. ‘Little by little, all of the time, you sip this water. Day and night. Tomorrow morning, eat one of these. Then later, eat another one. They will help your stomach.’

  He gave Jan some salak, fig-shaped fruit with scaly, snake-like skin. Jan knew immediately what they were. On Java, they had eaten these snake fruit to settle their stomachs, but he doubted whether they’d be strong enough to stem this rampaging diarrhoea.

  For three days he lay on the aft deck doing penance for his arrogance, while the Buginese tended to his needs and teased him mercilessly.

  ‘Is this how you repay our kindness?’ they asked. ‘Is this the work you promised us? You steal this passage from us. Tell us now, who is the pirate?’

  Despite his discomfort, Jan couldn’t help laughing, and their chiding helped to pass the days. On the fifth day, Jan added a little fish to the brown rice they gave him to eat and announced that he was strong enough to work. They gave him back his mid-afternoon watch and a course to steer, and retired to the shade for a sleep.

  For the first time in days, Jan felt truly alive. He believed he was the luckiest man in the world. For once the breeze held, and he could feel the boat beneath him, under his control, surge and roll with the waves. He watched the flying fish scatter before them and glide for hundreds of metres. He watched as they were attacked by marauding schools of yellowfin tuna, which would launch their bodies clear of the water in the frenzy of the hunt. How many of his friends had seen sights to compare with this?

  He forgot about his days of suffering and the treachery of the young cook, and he closed his mind to the nagging uncertainties of his return. For three days he became a Bugis seafarer making the return run to Kalimantan for more timber, revelling in the spriteliness of their under-ballasted vessel.

  When they finally reached Jakarta and parted company, Jan was genuinely saddened. He wanted to give the captain a gift. He had nothing to give except his commando knife, so he gave him that. The captain was delighted. At last the knife had an owner who had use for it.

  ‘Thank you, Pak,’ he said. ‘We have seen this knife in your bag and wondered why such a man would carry such a knife.’

  So they too had searched his bag. Jan had suspected as much.

  ‘I was scared,’ said Jan. ‘Scared that I might get carried away by Bugis pirates.’

  ‘Go with God,’ said the captain. ‘May your dead father’s wish be granted. May you find yourself among friends.’

  ‘Go with God, also,’ said Jan. ‘Perhaps, Pak Andi, one day we will meet again. Insh’ Allah, with luck.’

  He shook hands with the captain and each of the crew in turn, until he came to the man whose face would never again show the kindness and friendliness within him.

  ‘My friend, you saved my life. I wish I had something to give you worthy of the debt.’ On the spur of the moment, Jan took off the hat that had been his father’s and placed it on One-Eye’s head.

  One-Eye scowled with pleasure.

  Chapter Eleven

  Jan hired a bicycle-powered becak to carry him to the Netherlands Embassy. The people in the crowded streets seemed unchanged. Whenever he smiled his smiles were returned. If they resented his being there they hid their feelings well. Jan began to relax. If he was welcome in Jakarta, would he not also be welcome in Tangkuban Perahu? His confidence grew.

  As the distance and heat began to tell on his driver, he called out to him.

  ‘It is too hot and I am in no hurry. Let us rest and take some tea.’

  The driver nodded gratefully, and pedalled over to the side of the road where a stunted tree offered a little shade. They left their becak and walked over to a tiny shop, no bigger than a packing case. Perhaps it had once been one.

  Jan ordered cold tea for his driver and bottled mineral water for himself. He felt buoyant despite the heat, and turned to the shopkeeper to make light conversation.

  ‘It is good to return to Java,’ he said, anticipating polite enquiry from the shopkeeper. Instead he slammed Jan’s mineral water down on the counter in front of him. Jan was taken completely by surprise. Then he noticed all the posters and stickers fixed to the walls, proclaiming merdeka or freedom, which was the rallying call for independence.

  ‘Go away,’ said the shopkeeper angrily. ‘Can you not see? You are not welcome here. Go home!’

  A crowd began to gather around them, but Jan could not gauge from their deadpan faces whether they were hostile or otherwise.

  ‘Ma’af,’ said Jan. ‘I’m sorry. Please excuse me. How much do I owe you for the drinks?’

  Before the shopkeeper could reply, Jan’s driver began to abuse and berate him for his rudeness. The crowd joined in, taking sides as the debate became heated. This was the last thing Jan wanted. More and more people joined in, some just curious, others to push their cause. Jan drew himself up to his full height, put two fingers in his mouth, and blew the loudest, most piercing whistle of his life. The Javanese stopped and looked at him in amazement. Jan seized his opportunity.

  ‘Please,’ he cried. ‘No good will come from arguing. Some of you see me as your enemy. Some of you see me as your friend. This is good. This is how it should be. That is what merdeka is all about. It is your f
reedom to think of me as you will. Each of you is free to have his own opinion and to respect the opinion of others. That is merdeka. This man wants me to leave so I will leave. I will pay for our drinks and leave. I hope one day he will come to see me as his friend.’

  Jan paid the shopkeeper and walked away to the becak with his driver.

  ‘Selamat jalan,’ called a friendly voice which was immediately echoed by others. ‘Goodbye.’

  ‘Selamat tinggal,’ Jan responded, and made an exaggerated bow. Even the shopkeeper laughed. Jan realised he would have to be more careful. It was hard to believe that these people could turn against him. But hadn’t Hitler just shown the world what the politics of nationalism could do?

  Jan reached the embassy without further incident, and dug deeply into his diminishing store of rupiahs to pay his driver the amount they’d agreed and a little extra besides. The driver thanked Jan profusely and pedalled off to find some shade where he could sleep.

  The embassy staff gave Jan the welcome of the prodigal son. They urged him to stay for lunch and pressed him to tell the story of his journey so far. Jan did so, in great detail, and they hung on every word. They plied him with beer to sustain his tongue, and gradually the alcohol, the heat, and the comfort of company of his own kind began to tell on him.

  But by then he’d earned his rest, and the embassy staff went back to work with a new perspective on Bugis men.

  Jan spent the night at the home of one of the secretaries, and for the first time in a fortnight, slept in a bed. He had to be shaken awake in the morning to be driven to the station in time to catch the train to Bandung. His pockets were filled once more with rupiah, though he’d been cautious enough to leave the bulk of his money at the embassy.

  The train was not crowded and Jan found a seat by himself. For once he did not feel like talking. The staff at the embassy had warned him not to get his hopes up too high.

  ‘The vast majority of Indonesians are no better off with independence,’ they cautioned him. ‘Most of the wealth and property is still in Dutch hands. But for how long nobody knows. If the communists become too strong, Sukarno will use them to nationalise all the industry and property. If the military become strong enough, there will be a coup, and they will just walk in and take everything. The future here is very uncertain. Perhaps your unique arrangement will prove your salvation. Perhaps your father was a visionary. But, Jan, a wise man would not bank on it.’

  Jan was filled with trepidation. He felt dispirited and out of his depth. He felt he had been a fool to think he could just come back and find everything as it was. There was no way he or his mother could ever raise enough money to buy back the plantation, even if it was possible to buy it. They were looking to the plantation to support them.

  For the full six-hour journey, he gazed out of the window and avoided the eyes of the people who had joined him in the carriage. When the train stopped he was last out. He stood among the milling crowd on the platform pondering his next move. He saw only one other white face as it emerged from the first-class carriage. It belonged to a middle-aged man with what Jan believed to be the unmistakable attitude of the English. He was tall and slim, with a clipped moustache and aloof manner. And he had a Sundanese woman with him who appeared to be his wife. This was confirmed when a young girl appeared and took the Englishman’s hand. Already she was a beauty, this child of two cultures. Jan was captivated by her. He watched her until she left then slowly gathered up his own bags, reluctant to make the move that would decide his fate.

  His becak driver knew of the bus that went to Tangkuban Perahu, and took him to meet it. In his heart Jan hoped he’d missed it, but the waiting crowd told him otherwise. He paid off his driver and took his place in the queue. People stared at him curiously. Some smiled hesitantly. But Jan was unsure whether to engage them in conversation or not. He did not want to spark another debate on whether he was welcome.

  Bandung had been an administrative centre for the Dutch, and they’d left a legacy of museums, cultural centres, a university, art deco buildings, and gracious living. But what other legacies had they left behind? The young Sukarno began his political career in Bandung, and the cries of merdeka had rung as loudly here as anywhere else in Java.

  Jan took his place on the ancient bus. The springs sagged and the shock absorbers were nonexistent. He had only thirty or so kilometres to travel but they would not be easy. The other passengers had left him a double seat all to himself. Again, their motive was not clear. Was it deference to his skin, a hangover from the colonial days? Or something more sinister? The bus stopped to take on more passengers, among them a young woman struggling with odd-shaped bundles and carrying a child on her hip. The place beside Jan was the only remaining seat yet she did not take it. Jan could not allow this. She had more right to sit than he. So he stood.

  ‘Please sister,’ he said. ‘You must sit. If you wish, I will stand.’

  The woman turned away in embarrassment. Other passengers stared at him.

  ‘Please,’ he said again.

  A young man about Jan’s own age stood. ‘I will share the seat with the stranger,’ he said.

  The man came and sat next to Jan without exchanging a glance. The woman gratefully took his seat. Conversations which had faltered began again, and Jan was temporarily forgotten.

  As the bus laboured up the hill north-west from Bandung, the young man turned towards Jan and spoke to him shyly.

  ‘It is not usual to find Europeans on this bus.’

  Jan grunted.

  ‘It is not usual to find Europeans on any bus in Java.’

  Jan smiled. The young man was obviously playing with him.

  ‘Are you going to see our mountain, Tangkuban Perahu?’

  ‘No,’ Jan replied. ‘I am going only as far as the road to Ciater.’

  ‘You have friends there?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘You have business there?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Life is full of uncertainties, my friend,’ said the young man. ‘But it seems God has given you more than your share.’

  Jan laughed despite himself.

  ‘And you are certain of the path your life takes?’ Jan asked.

  ‘My path takes me to Lembang. To my wife and her parents and my son. Once I lived on Tangkuban Perahu, but I married this woman from Lembang. Her parents are old and they have no sons to work their land. Their land is now mine. It is a fortunate marriage. The path of my life is certain, God willing.’

  ‘You are indeed fortunate,’ responded Jan. ‘Merciful God has been kind to you.’

  His companion looked at him in surprise. ‘You are of the faith?’

  Jan shook his head and smiled. He turned to look out of the window to discourage further conversation. He was in no mood for it.

  After what seemed like hours in the boiling heat of the crowded bus, they wheezed and spluttered into Lembang. The young man stood to leave and, to Jan’s surprise, offered Jan his hand. As Jan shook it, the young man leaned towards him and whispered.

  ‘You are free to steal the eggs from my chickens, my friend.’

  Jan looked up at the young man, surprised and confused. But he just laughed and climbed down off the bus.

  Twenty minutes later Jan stood on the road to Ciater, with just a four kilometre walk ahead of him to the place of his childhood. Already the sun was racing towards its nightly retreat behind the mountain. He walked briskly. Come what may, by nightfall he would know where he stood. He reached the eastern boundary of the plantation.

  There were some weeds between the bushes, more than his father would ever have allowed, but they were hardly rampant. He looked along the line of the boundary to places where the surrounding forest was beginning to encroach. It was not significant, but his father would never have allowed that either. Given the chance neither would he.

  He turned into the driveway, heart pounding, but that had nothing to do with the heat. He walked on towards the house. The s
hutters were closed but, as far as he could tell, looked in fair condition. Perhaps it was as his father had left it. But how could it be? He walked on, unannounced and uncertain of his welcome.

  But the young man on the bus had recognised him, and the bush telegraph works as efficiently in Java as it does anywhere else in the world. It is faster by far than an ancient, wheezing bus.

  The boy who had run with the children of the village, and stolen mangoes and mangosteens, and eggs to boil in the thermal pools, had not been forgotten. Nor had his father, now revered for his foresight. Had he not been the first to remove the colonial yoke, and acknowledge their claim to their own lands? The dark familiar faces of his childhood poured forth from the enveloping green, eyes streaming, his name singing on their lips.

  They surrounded him and showered him with petals, and carried him in their throng to his house. Proudly, they threw open the doors and shutters, and told him how they had patiently waited for the return of the Van der Meers. In eight years not a day had passed without the house being aired and the floors swept. Jan’s misty eyes saw the truth of this and he was overwhelmed by relief and gratitude. They brought him tea and sweet cakes, and sat down to hear his story. His father’s agreement had been honoured. Jan could not imagine a finer legacy.

  Chapter Twelve

  Jan did not grab the reins and impose his will, exercising the superiority most Europeans assumed was theirs. Had he done so it is unlikely that anyone would have opposed him, at least not directly, because Jan was a giant among the diminutive Sundanese. His size intimidated them.

  But Bapak Jan, or Pak Jan, as they called him, formally according him the honorific of ‘father’ appropriate to his position as head of the estate, had already determined to run the plantation the Indonesian way. After all, they were his partners and had operated well enough without him.