by Arthur Japin
The assistant resident’s wife alighted briskly. She did not seem to notice the mud and hurried to welcome us, shaking the raindrops from her head. Cornelius whispered that she was Mrs. Douwes Dekker and a baroness to boot—the proximity of aristocracy always excited him—but social niceties were evidently unimportant to her. She unbuttoned her cape and extended her hand warmly.
“Mr. de Groot! What a muddle! We had not expected you today, I must confess, because of the weather. When the rains get as heavy as this the locals tend to avoid going out in their boats.”
“You know how it is, madam. For the natives it is of no consequence whether they go fishing today or tomorrow. Each day is the same to them. But for us it is different. We are on an extended tour, and therefore make every effort to adhere to our schedule as closely as possible.”
Our hostess inspected the mud on her boots and wiped her heels on the grass. “Actually, my husband and I have always found it rewarding to observe the native customs as much as we can,” she said casually. “We benefit from their experience. And besides, it saves us from inadvertently giving offence, and also from peril during stormy weather. But thank goodness you have arrived safely. And who is your friend?”
She turned to face me. I hid my left hand behind my back, thinking it unwise to draw attention to my injury.
Before I had time to say my name, Cornelius broke in with: “This gentleman here, madam, is my secretary. He will not inconvenience you, have no fear.”
“Indeed, I see no reason why he should,” she said, ignoring Cornelius’s imperious tone and keeping her gaze fixed on me. “And how did you fare on your journey, Mr. . . . ?”
“Boachi,” Cornelius said gruffly, “Aquasi Boachi.”
“I have survived all my travels this far, madam.”
“Then you will have plenty of stories to entertain us with this evening. We have been living here for some months now, and are sorely lacking in diversion. I am sorry that my husband is unable to be here to welcome you. He had urgent business to discuss with the governor at Batu Gadja.” She indicated a large house on the slope of a hill nearby.
“Not anything serious I hope?”
“I shouldn’t think so.” She took my arm, saying: “Come, I will show you your rooms.”
“Mr. Boachi will sleep with the servants.”
“Nonsense.” She hesitated, thinking Cornelius might be joking.
“And he will eat with them too. That is our custom,” de Groot continued.
“Well sir, if we were to observe all the colonial conventions here, then . . .”
“Surely you do not allow native customs to overrule those of your fellow countrymen?”
“We keep an open mind, Mr. de Groot, so that we may act sensibly.” Her smile was so charming that Cornelius let the matter rest for the time being. He glanced at his boots and scraped the mud off his heels.
“All my life,” he said with a note of vexation in his voice, “I have known that each man has his rightful place in the world. Maintaining rank is essential in the colonies. It makes life so much easier.”
“Our lives maybe, but what about our souls?”
In the meantime our luggage had been dragged to the veranda by the servant-boy. The latter resumed his guard duty by perching cross-legged on top of a suitcase. Cornelius motioned him to get off his property. When the boy did not respond de Groot stepped forward to chase him away.
Our hostess took the opportunity to draw me aside, saying: “Come along, Mr. Boachi, you shall have the room in which François Valentijn stayed. Have you ever met him? A man of great scholarship. My husband will tell you all about him . . . Are you familiar with our seventeenth century at all?”
That evening Mrs. Douwes Dekker herself came to my room to call me for dinner, as though she was afraid I would not dare come. Together we entered the small dining room, where Cornelius was chatting to her husband. The appearance of the hostess obliged Cornelius to rise from his seat. My presence did not please him, I could see that, but he wished me good evening nonetheless. The rain had stopped at last and a welcome breeze came in through the screen door, refreshing us all.
“Does your religion permit you to raise a glass with us?”
“I was baptized a Christian, madam,” I replied.
“Indeed,” she said, and signalled to a servant to bring me a glass, which her husband filled with cool claret. Cornelius accepted every offer of more wine, which the assistant resident poured generously although he drank little himself.
Douwes Dekker was friendly but taciturn, as if his thoughts were elsewhere. He did not look very strong, and his melancholy air suggested that he was languishing. He mentioned that his health, already undermined by his years in the tropics, had deteriorated further in the short time he had been in office at Amboina. Moreover, in the same period he had been bereaved of his parents, sister and brother and other loved ones. He was homesick and had been trying for some time to obtain a furlough.
“Thirteen years in the tropics,” his wife went on, “signifies recurrent bouts of fever. Infections. Sleep disturbances. Constant worries.”
On that very day, however, Douwes Dekker had received encouraging news. He revealed that he had just been granted three months’ leave to plead his cause in Batavia. His wife was greatly relieved, and sat beside him quietly holding his hand for a long while. It pleased me to see them thus. In those days I had grown unaccustomed to domestic happiness.
Douwes Dekker asked me where I came from. I gave him a brief explanation of the motive for my removal to Holland, which astonished him. He remembered meeting two Africans several years before, when he was serving as commissioner to the resident of Bagelen. They said they had come from West Africa, and seemed quite proud to have served in the Dutch colonial army. However, when their term ended they chose to live out their days as civilians. They had settled at the mouth of the river Progo, where they eked out a living with the production of salt. I agreed that these men must have been among the recruits procured by my father.
Dinner was served. We took our seats at table and as I was obliged to eat with cutlery I could no longer hide my injured hand. I had applied a fresh bandage and tried to cover it with my sleeve, but the wound ached and I had difficulty holding my fork.
“It is nothing serious,” I said, but my hostess insisted on inspecting my hand.
“What a dreadful cut, how did that happen?”
“How now, Prince Aquasi,” Cornelius slurred. “Been clumsy again?”
“It is nothing, really.” To prove my point I grabbed my fork and speared a morsel of food.
“So why make a fuss? Our host was telling us such an interesting story,” Cornelius said, after which he dominated the conversation for the next half hour, boring us all with his account of our findings in the wilds of Madura, where the Dutch had long been prospecting for minerals without success.
Mrs. Douwes Dekker turned to address me. “This morning I had no idea that we would be dining with a prince. Cook has done her best, but as you see, we have nothing special on our menu. Come, tell me some more about your people.”
I was embarrassed by her attention, and watched Cornelius out of the corner of my eye. He had no intention of ending his monologue, but the table was large and he continued unperturbed. I told her my story and she listened attentively. She straightened her shoulders and interrupted me only once, when her husband ordered another bottle to be opened to replenish Cornelius’s glass yet again.
“I must advise you all,” she said with a smile, so that no one would take offence, “that drink goes to the head faster here than elsewhere.”
The truth of her words was proved almost immediately by Cornelius, whose drunken rambling had unleashed one of his favourite anecdotes about Madura. I had heard him tell the story on several occasions, although never in the presence of a lady.
He recounted the following experience. Impressed by the interest Cornelius had shown in his lands, the chief of Bunbungan had sought to
draw the Dutchman’s attention to his eldest daughter, in the hope of marrying her off in exchange for certain privileges pertaining to the administration of the region. Cornelius had not broken off negotiations forthwith, but played for time so that the young lady would be sent to his rooms for approval. As usual, he paused at this point, in order to whet his listeners’ appetite. I felt the blood rush to my cheeks and did not dare meet the eyes of our hostess.
“Next morning,” Cornelius went on, throwing a meaningful look at Douwes Dekker, as though they were alone and united in spirit, “I sent her back to her father with the message that I could not see why the Madura maiden was so highly esteemed. That I had received a better love massage in the slums of Batavia, and that a Dutchman does not exchange his integrity for a few spasms.”
He was so pleased with himself that it took a while for him to notice that no one was laughing. Douwes Dekker rang for the servant.
“May I remind you,” he said, “that you are our guest. We are not accustomed to barrack-room talk.”
When it finally dawned on Cornelius that he had committed a grave social offence he looked so crestfallen that our hostess tried to rescue him by broaching another subject, but she soon ran out of things to say.
“I only mentioned the incident,” Cornelius floundered on, “by way of illustration—how to nip corruption in the bud, what?” No one spoke.
“Hardly respectful,” I hissed. Cornelius turned his eyes on me.
“Not respectful?” he echoed, in a low menacing voice. “If anyone lacks respect it is you.” He jumped to his feet, spoiling for a fight. I did the same, whereupon our hostess came into action. She rose from the table as if dinner were over and took my arm.
“My dear Prince,” she said, “we must do something about your poor hand. Come along, we’ll get the house-boy to give you a fresh bandage.”
She drew back my chair and swept me out of the room. “One cannot be too careful. The climate is most inflammatory.”
Her house-boy turned out to be the lad who had been the cause of our altercation on the jetty. He brought clean water and a small chest containing assorted herbs. I eyed him suspiciously. He squatted on the ground before me and resolutely pulled the handkerchief off the wound.
“Ouch!”
“Forgive me. Such a deep cut.”
He rolled up my sleeve and poured the water liberally over the back of my hand. With deep concentration, the tip of his tongue between his lips, he disinfected the wound with a dried leaf and then sprinkled on some powder. It stung painfully, and I shrank back while he blew on my hand.
“Pain, tuan?” he enquired gently.
“No pain.”
He raised his eyes to see whether I meant it, whereupon he stopped blowing on the wound and proceeded to prepare an ointment of palm butter, to which he added a variety of ingredients. He looked at me again, deliberating whether he dared speak his mind.
“So bad, the wound,” he said eventually, and resumed stirring the ointment, rapidly at first and then dragging the spatula this way and that.
“When the farmer beats his buffalo it refuses to budge,” he said finally, smearing the ointment thickly on the back of my hand. He looked hard at me to see whether I understood his meaning.
“The buffalo has a thick skin,” I said gruffly, “and a short memory.”
“A man is not the same as a buffalo.”
“No, a man can try to understand motives.”
“The buffalo is strong, but stupid. That’s why he puts up with it.”
Not wishing to get drawn into an awkward conversation I broke in with, “Are you always so talkative?”
“Always, tuan!”
“Then I expect you often get yourself into trouble.”
“Always, tuan!”
Cornelius and I had once been received by the susuhunan of Surakarta, where several tigers had been caught in recent weeks. The cages were overcrowded and there was a shortage of food for the wild beasts. They had been fed all the poultry, monkeys and dogs that could be found, and were growing alarmingly thin. One tiger had already perished, and its death was considered to have brought shame on the court. Now it was time for the largest specimen to be disposed of without loss of face.
All the public officials arrived in full dress, the officers and princes wore uniform. We joined the grand procession and were admitted to the second forecourt of the palace, where the susuhunan awaited us on his throne.
A circular enclosure made of wooden poles and bamboo stakes had been erected on the grassed area. A buffalo wreathed in flowers was led into the pen. Then a cart bearing a large Javan tiger pacing to and fro in a cage was drawn up to the palisade. The spectators held their breath. The only sound was the gamelan orchestra. The air was filled with reverent suspense.
Cornelius, who was sitting next to me, drew himself up. I noticed him clenching and unclenching his left hand, as he always did when mentally preparing himself for a fight. His agitation was beginning to attract attention, so I nudged him with my elbow. He took no notice and cracked his knuckles with a single flick of the wrist.
The trap door in the cage was opened, after which there was no barrier between the lithe, muscular tiger and the mountain of flesh. Nothing happened. Instead of pouncing, the tiger sank on to his haunches and lay down, then settled his head on his front paws, keeping his eyes fixed on the buffalo. Sensing danger, the buffalo raised his heavy head and glared with bulging eyes. He turned to face the tiger, and advanced at a slow, steady pace.
“Look at that,” exclaimed Cornelius. “So majestic. So fearless.”
The buffalo lowered his head, pointing the horns at his adversary, and stood there, quite still. There was some whispering and shuffling about in the audience. Only Cornelius did not lose his concentration. His breathing was fast and shallow and he was sweating. The combat had already started in his mind. He thrilled to the ominous silence. His mouth was open, his lips were parched. He had difficulty swallowing because he was so focused on the beasts. A muscle twitched in his jaw. I followed his eyes and saw a ripple of tension on the buffalo’s flanks. No one else seemed to notice, but I knew that the threat always holds more violence than the attack.
At a sign from the susuhunan five attendants climbed on to the roof of the cage. From that vantage point they dropped handfuls of burning straw on to the tiger’s back. Although visibly roused by the pain, he did not attack. Next, boiling water was poured over the buffalo, which bellowed and retreated a few steps. The tiger did not rise. At last a powdered herb was sprinkled on to both animals, which stung so badly that they were galvanized into action. The tiger emerged from his corner and lunged at the buffalo. I could hear a sharp intake of breath at my side. The buffalo, undaunted, watched the wild beast slinking around him in circles, keeping his horns lowered menacingly. Finally, the tiger marshalled all his forces to pounce. He leaped in a great arc over his adversary’s head and sank his teeth into the neck. The buffalo was momentarily stunned, and did not make a sound. Then he rolled his eyes in rage and heaved his head from side to side with great force, slinging his attacker against the sides of the cage. But the tiger did not let go.
The buffalo paused to brace himself for a renewed attempt to shake off the wild beast. He dashed the tiger against the ground repeatedly and with such violence that the creature was forced to give way. At this point the buffalo took the offensive: he lowered his head and butted the tiger again and again with his horns, pushing him towards the palisade. Eventually the tiger sprang away, and lurked at the opposite end of the enclosure. He seemed confused by his failure to gain immediate victory over his lumbering foe.
“That’ll teach him,” rejoiced Cornelius. And then he turned serious: “Finish him! Finish him! Show him the stuff you’re made of!” He slapped his thighs. This gesture was not a sign of contentment, it served to sharpen his senses for the finale.
The royal tiger attacked again, frontally this time, and again he was gored. He leaped on top of his cage
, making the attendants flee in all directions, paced the roof a few times and then took a flying leap, claws outstretched, on to the buffalo. The buffalo caught the great cat on his horns, mortally wounding him. The tiger did not charge again, but slunk round in circles, cowering and hissing and lashing out feebly. Finally he sank to the ground, exhausted, whereupon he was impaled to death by the buffalo.
The crowd cheered. All around us people were commenting on the fight. I too expressed admiration, but my neighbour did not speak. I turned to look at Cornelius. He had thrown his head back, as if in supplication to the heavens, and heaved a deep sigh of relief. His eyes were moist and he was shivering with elation. When he came to his senses, a grin spread slowly across his face and he took a long hard look at the dead beast as it was being dragged away. He wiped the sweat off his chin with his fist and stuffed his fingers into his mouth to suppress his glee. He seemed deranged. I saw a trickle of blood oozing from the corner of his mouth, and glanced around anxiously to see whether his behaviour was attracting attention. Grabbing his arms I shook him fiercely. Pleasure unleashed in him a passion no less violent than rage. It took a while for him to calm down. He glanced at me as if surprised to see me sitting next to him. There were tooth marks across his fingers. He stared at them blankly.
“Splendid, Boachi, what?” he said finally, “to see how stolid resolve conquers innate strength.”
“They seemed an equal match to me.”
“But the tiger lost. He underestimated the buffalo’s power because he believed he was superior by nature. Splendid. Splendid.”
“Nonsense. Neither of them wanted to fight.”
“But circumstances brought them together.”
“Even so, they would have left each other unharmed if they had not been driven to it. They had to be goaded into action no less than three times.” I was shouting now. “Three times. Don’t you see that both creatures had one common enemy?”
