Twilight in Djakarta

by Mochtar Lubis

  Raden Kaslan lowered his eyes. Husin Limbara, with great calm, looked fixedly at Halim and in the end it was Halim who averted his glance.

  ‘My newspaper has suffered great losses as the result of supporting the government. But every time I ask for support I am put off as if I were a beggar. I am tired of begging from you, gentlemen. Why should I be begging from you? It’s you, gentlemen, who’re indebted to me.’

  ‘But how about the bank loan for the printing plant, and the several hundred thousands we have given …?’ said Raden Kaslan suddenly.

  Halim turned to Raden Kaslan and said, smiling,

  ‘What does this loan of six million for the printing plant amount to? And the few hundred thousand rupiah – they’re chicken-feed. Especially if we compare it to the hundreds of millions you’ve been making on all these deals …!’

  ‘What you really want then, brother, is …’ asked Husin Limbara coolly.

  ‘I refuse to be merely your tool,’ said Halim. ‘If we’re to work together I must be treated as an equal.’

  ‘But you’ve already got a seat in the parliament!’ said Husin Limbara.

  Halim laughed sarcastically.

  ‘How generous your gracious gift! A seat in a provisional parliament soon to be dissolved, after the general elections only a few months hence. Of what significance is that?’

  ‘But you asked for it yourself, brother,’ Husin Limbara retorted.

  ‘Of course! But surely you realise that this isn’t enough and is only temporary anyway,’ Halim shot back.

  ‘Ah, if you wish, we can include you in the list of party candidates for the elections,’ said Husin Limbara. He felt somewhat relieved – so that’s what’s worrying Halim. ‘This I can guarantee, don’t worry,’ Husin Limbara added.

  ‘That’s of no use to me,’ said Halim. ‘You know as well as I do that it’s better for our plans if I’m known in public as a non-party man.’

  ‘Brother Halim wants a greater share of the money,’ said Raden Kaslan. A light smile appeared on Husin Limbara’s lips. As chairman of the party he’d had considerable experience in dealing with people like Halim. Here he felt on firm ground once more. If the problem was one of money he, Husin Limbara, could settle it.

  ‘Ah, is that all?’ he said. ‘But you know yourself, brother Halim, that we have to be very cautious in such matters just now. Every day the opposition’s newspapers persist in tearing into the various special licences. The party itself doesn’t know how much longer it can shield the minister concerned without getting embroiled in difficulties with the other government parties.’

  ‘All right, brother, just listen to a little proposition I have for you here,’ said Halim. ‘Through my connections I have reliable reports that the opposition parties have worked out a plan of campaign for attacking the government in their Press. If you examine carefully the content of the opposition papers over the last few weeks, you will see that their campaign against the government is quite systematic. One of the opposition papers exposes something, it is then picked up and exaggerated in the headlines of the other newspapers, and, being centrally directed, all this does not fail to make a strong impression on the public. In contrast, the pro-government Press isn’t co-ordinated at all. Each newspaper goes its own sweet way, expressing its own reactions; in short, the voice of the government Press is neither united nor strong, but disjointed and ineffective in combating the opposition’s campaign.’

  ‘This, alas, is very true, brother Halim,’ said Husin Limbara. He had become interested in Halim’s argument and forgot about the money problem still to be settled.

  And inwardly Raden Kaslan too had to admit the merit of Halim’s expert analysis of the press problem.

  ‘I have worked out a plan of how the pro-government Press should co-operate to fight the opposition,’ Halim continued, ‘and I want to propose that within the shortest possible time a meeting be arranged between the editors-in-chief, the directors of the pro-government Djakarta Press, the leaders of the government parties, and the more important cabinet ministers. At this meeting the basic policies for our campaign to fight the opposition should be outlined. As the famous military saying goes, “attack is the best form of defence”. Similarly the pro-government Press should take the initiative and attack, and not, as at the present, just react defensively every time the opposition takes the offensive. So far the majority of the pro-government newspapers, with the exception of mine, have merely reacted to the contents of the opposition Press. This is a mistake. We can’t win over public opinion in this way. Look what’s happening now. One has to admit frankly that the average circulation of the pro-government newspapers is going down, while that of the opposition Press is growing steadily. The government papers cannot survive without organised support. My idea is that we must establish a press service to collect, prepare and distribute systematically materials for our press campaign. These materials will then be published in all the newspapers which support the government, either as news reports, news comments, interviews and so forth.’

  ‘Very good, very good,’ said Husin Limbara.

  ‘But we must launch it under the guise of an independent press organisation and not one tied to the party,’ continued Halim. And that’s why the organisation will need a budget, an office and a staff of its own. According to my estimates, about five hundred thousand will do for a start, including the purchase of equipment such as typewriters, desks and so on, and salaries for the employees.’

  ‘The financial part we can discuss with our colleagues,’ said Husin Limbara. ‘As for the plan, it’s very good. Excellent.’ And he rubbed his hands.

  And once again Raden Kaslan mentally had to applaud Halim’s skill in making so persuasive a presentation.

  ‘Apart from this feature service, I also want to propose the establishment of several other friendly newspapers,’ Halim continued. ‘So we can emerge as the leading press organisation. Our voice simply doesn’t count in the one which exists now.’

  ‘Good, good. This can easily be arranged,’ said Husin Limbara.

  ‘Nah,’ said Halim, ‘if you agree, I can start making the preparations right away if the money is made available immediately. But, all this aside – as I’ve already indicated, my own newspaper continues to suffer losses because it supports the government’s cause. I’m fed up with begging for support. To avoid any further quibbling about money, I’m asking for a loan of at least eight million to finance my newly established import firm – it’s already been approved.’

  Halim picked up his briefcase from the floor by his chair and took out an issue of the State News.

  Husin Limbara took the sheet from Halim and read the item on the chartering of the import firm Ikan Mas.1

  ‘Leave this with me, brother,’ he said. ‘I’ll discuss the loan with the ministers concerned.’

  ‘I’m confident,’ said Halim, ‘that you’ll succeed. Because, if not, I’ll no longer be in a position to continue my support for you.’

  Husin Limbara laughed, and then suddenly said,

  ‘Wouldn’t it be better not to invest the whole eight million in this one import corporation? You must realise that the import field is now the main target for opposition attacks. Why don’t you start up some other enterprise, some mines or a factory for instance, and divide the loan, drawing it under two names?’

  ‘You’re quite right there, brother,’ Halim replied, laughing. ‘Provided I’m sure of getting the loan, there’ll be no trouble dividing it up later.’

  ‘So where do we stand now?’ asked Raden Kaslan, who had been silent throughout this interchange. ‘Does it mean that from now on I’m no longer to be involved in the financing of Halim?’

  Husin Limbara was quiet for a moment, turning things over in his mind. Then he said,

  ‘Yes, I’ll see to it that brother Halim’s request is met. As for co-ordinating the pro-government Press, I can settle it at once; you can go ahead with the preparations immediately. The cost isn’t too
heavy.’ He then stood up, saying, ‘Nah, I hope we’ve finished our discussion, and our co-operation will be even firmer than it was before.’

  Halim rose too, picked up his briefcase and said to Husin Limbara,

  ‘My car may not have come yet. Could you give me a lift to my office?’

  ‘Certainly, certainly,’ Husin Limbara responded.

  Halim’s car had in fact not arrived, and they left Raden Kaslan behind to marvel at Halim’s slickness. Just imagine, the fellow talked for just half an hour, and managed to wheedle out over eight and a half million ….

  In the car Halim was saying to Husin Limbara,

  ‘Raden Kaslan didn’t seem very happy during our discussion ….’

  ‘Ah, he’s getting old. And given to changeable moods. He’s put in an application to have a Dutch car-importing firm transferred to him and it hasn’t been approved yet.’

  ‘But he’s got so much already, and still he isn’t satisfied,’ said Halim. ‘Import firms by the dozen, in his own name, the name of his wife, his son and whoever else. It’s really amazing how greedy people can be. Who knows how much more goes into his pockets than goes into the party treasury?’

  Inwardly Husin Limbara was saying, Yes, but you, my friend, are you any less greedy than that scoundrel Kaslan? You had a bank loan for the printing works, hundreds of thousands for your newspaper, a seat in parliament and are now due to get over eight million – if that isn’t greed!

  But he smiled at Halim and said,

  ‘Well, there’re all sorts of people in the world. No one’s satisfied. The rich ones want more power, the rich ones want more wealth. Just look at the opposition parties. What are they shouting for? They’ve got no responsibility whatever for the welfare of our country and the people. Continually harassing the government, without a let-up, so the really important work of building up the country gets held up because we’re forced to deal with an opposition that’s gone off the track. How can the government do its work if it’s constantly harassed?’ Husin Limbara sighed, deeply deploring the sordid ways in which these others played politics.

  Ah, just keep talking to your heart’s content, do you really imagine you can pull the wool over my eyes? Halim grinned to himself. Large-scale looting is what you’re perpetrating in the name of the people. Well, you think you’re using me, but it’s me who’s using you. And laughing softly, Halim said,

  ‘You’re right, of course, brother, the leaders of the opposition are all stooges of the capitalists and colonialists. They should all be wiped out.’

  Then the car, its brakes screeching and its tyres squealing on the pavement, came to a sudden stop as the driver just managed to avoid colliding with a betja.

  Husin Limbara and Halim were thrown forward, Husin Limbara’s glasses fell on the floor. Halim, being younger, quickly regained his balance and said,

  ‘Lucky we didn’t hit him.’

  ‘Hell!’ swore Husin Limbara, and as the car passed the betja, whose driver stood waiting in fear, Husin Limbara stuck his head out of his newly polished Cadillac. ‘Look first before you cross, lu! Follow the traffic rules!’

  And then he said to Halim, ‘And betja drivers should be wiped out, too. They’re just causing traffic accidents.’

  ‘Moreover, they’re a blot on the dignity of man!’ said Halim mockingly. Husin Limbara looked at him, caught the joke in Halim’s remark and laughed. His annoyance with the betja driver disappeared, and he said,

  ‘Ah, you talk just like a member of the opposition!’

  And they both laughed.

  Pranoto was writing an article in his room. The walls around him were lined with books on metal bookshelves, just like in a library. Otherwise the room was very simple. A small bed in one corner. Near his desk on a low table stood an electric record-player, and at its side a hi-fi radio set. According to Pranoto the records, especially of classical music, did not sound well without the hi-fi hook-up.

  When he had first sat down to write, everything he meant to say seemed very clear in his mind. But as he went along he had to stop more and more often, dissatisfied with what he’d set down – he felt the sentences he’d formed didn’t convey clearly what he’d really intended to say.

  Pranoto got up, put on a record, Schubert’s Quartet No. 14 in D minor. He stretched out on his bed, listening to the beginning … Schubert’s music – ‘Death and the Maiden’ – merging with his own artistic sensibilities produced in him a feeling of great loneliness. Pranoto began to contemplate his own self.

  Here I am, he said to himself, thirty-four years old, still unmarried. Six years spent in the foreign service, then he’d given it up. And now publishing a cultural and political journal. He remembered the time when he had worked for the Indonesian delegation in New York. Two years in New York. Liz, Martha, Connie and much else. Connie stood out vividly in his mind. They were still corresponding. Pranoto smiled to himself sadly. His relationship with Connie was a kind of dream, like living in another world. Something that couldn’t be realised under present circumstances without destroying its essence. He knew with certainty that though he loved Connie he could never make up his mind to marry her. Pranoto had always prided himself on his practical sense, and in his letters to Connie he had repeatedly pointed out that it was impossible for him to marry her, no matter how strongly his heart, filled with love for her, urged him to do so.

  I love you too much, Connie, he often wrote, to marry you and to bring you here into the life of my own people. You wouldn’t be able to live on my earnings, as an Indonesian woman and wife could. Your standard of living is so much higher than ours. And I wouldn’t want my wife to live any differently than my own people. I wouldn’t want to see my family become an island to itself, far above other Indonesian families. Even though you say that you can make the sacrifice, I cannot accept it. Therefore you’re free to live as you please; my love imposes no ties on you. And I say to you, I love you, love you ever so much, will always love you whatever you do, even if you marry someone else, my love for you will never change and I’ll always be with you in spirit. I have a duty to fulfil towards my own people here, to vindicate the struggle of my friends who have laid down their lives in the revolution for the liberation of my people. These friends of mine have not died to free my country and then have it bled white by immoral and unscrupulous politicians. Our young people have therefore a duty to work here in our homeland, to open the eyes of the people, to raise their standard of living, until the whole of our people is capable of consciously taking the reins of their destiny in their own hands.

  Connie had written back, saying that reading his letter had made her love him all the more and had made her even more determined to be at his side during his struggle.

  I love you, wrote Connie, and you know how strong my feelings for you are. You say that if you married me you would feel obliged for my sake to create a separate island, alien to your society. How incredibly little you think of my love for you. Do you imagine that we American women are incapable of loving a man strongly enough to be happy to sacrifice everything for him? What does it matter having to bear the hardships you describe in your letter, having to live in one room, having to share a house with two or three other families and me having to give up the comforts of American life? As if you didn’t know there are plenty of Americans who live in badly crowded apartment houses, and, speaking of comforts, I’m sick and tired of hearing about America’s prosperity. This expression has been a curse for our people, and I now experience it myself – it has become a curse upon the love that binds us together. Do you really think that we can’t live without an elevator, without a pressure-cooker, without a fruit-squeezer, without a washing machine, without lipsticks, permanent waves and various other products of our giant industries? Don’t you know that there are many Americans who long for a life such as in your country, without the complexities of the machine age and all its consequences for human beings? You must realise that I love you, that I want to live by your side, to
help you in your struggle to elevate your people. Am I asking too much, my dearest?

  And Pranoto had written that he felt deeply how very fortunate he was to be blessed by a love as great as Connie’s, but that evidently she hadn’t fully understood what he had meant. He found it very hard, in fact, to tell her this – but to understand the conditions in his country fully, she had to realise that while physical hardships could be overcome by the power of love, there were other things which could not, no matter how great their love.

  Here in my country, Pranoto wrote, there’s a plague of mistrust and suspicion of all foreigners, especially the white man, and Americans, Britons, Dutchmen, Frenchmen – they’re all lumped together – all are wicked imperialists and capitalists. And an Indonesian with a Dutch, English, American or French wife is automatically suspect and is distrusted by his own people, particularly if he happens to be opposed to the communists or fanatic nationalists. He is finished then; and far from being any help to him his wife only impedes his efforts to fight on. That’s why, no matter how much I love you, and though I know how selfless your love for me is, we must both have the courage to renounce our love to my struggle in my people’s cause. I will always be longing for you, Connie, my love!

  But Pranoto never sent this letter to Connie. After re-reading it he had felt that it was too hard, even cruel, and that it didn’t really reflect what was in his heart – which was crying out for Connie. Also, he was still torn by doubts that he found impossible to resolve.

  Pranoto smiled bitterly. He recalled how ardently he always insisted that the Indonesians of his generation regarded themselves as heirs of all humanity, that no national barriers stood in their way and that human values were the same all over the world. And now he could not make a decision for himself.