The Interpreter from Java

by Alfred Birney

  Abode unknown

  Hey, Pa, at the time we had no idea where you were living. We forgot to ask, or it never even occurred to us. All we knew was that you’d ended up in a bedsit somewhere. You sent us a letter, a censored version of which was read out to us by the head, who then cut it into snippets and tossed it in the waste paper basket. Enclosed were two copies of a colour photo of you: one for the girls and one for the boys. Taken with a self-timer, it shows you sitting in that typical Indo or Indonesian squat, wearing pyjamas of course like all Indos of your generation did around the house, a habit inevitably misunderstood by those prissy Hollanders, especially the ladies. In the foreground, the metal frame of a hospital bed edges into the photo. I hate those beds; to this day, they make me think of death. An Airfix kit, still in its box, sits on the windowsill in the background of your messy room. Behind your hunched, resigned figure is a stack of cases with a soup bowl on top, which you insisted on calling a ‘mug’. A handful of books are piled on cheap shelves hanging from nails on the wall. On the top shelf, there’s a radio and on the radio is a picture frame turned away from the lens. Your mother’s portrait, most likely. She had less than six months left to live and would die in October of a broken heart, at least that’s how you put it. It was Nana who came up to me in the corridor of the boys’ wing and told me she had passed away, news I greeted with indifference… To the right of the photo are the contours of a wooden rack. And there’s a chair. That’s all. Your striped pyjamas make you look like a convict. I can’t remember if I thought you deserved to be pitied. But looking at your image now, that was the impression you wanted to give.

  With palpable reluctance, the head dipped his fingers into the envelope that had contained the letter deemed largely unsuitable for us, fished out your photo and handed it over. I still have it and no… I still cannot pity you.

  The days, the weeks, the months

  My parents squabble via lawyers and an agreement is reached. My father is allowed to come and see us every third Saturday afternoon and my mother every Sunday afternoon. Not only does this ensure that they never meet but also that my father, as the main culprit, takes second place. On the Saturdays when the Eagle does not come to call, I keep myself amused in the company of the other leftover weekend kids. There aren’t many of us. We hang out in the hobby room, which is off the day room and next to the washing-up room. This den of ours isn’t as squeaky clean as the day room. It is home to a workbench with a vice and a toolbox for doing woodwork, but mostly we just spin records there. Sometimes Phil livens things up: we pinch roof slates from the carpenter’s shed and he breaks them down the middle with his forehead. He wins bets by performing this trick on ever thicker stacks of slates and earns the respect of the older boys.

  The portable record player has two speeds, but the clapped-out belt drive slows our 45s till our idols’ voices slide down a notch and fray at the edges. With the aid of a rubber band, I manage to get them spinning at something like the right speed. Some weekends we’re out of luck and one of the older lads sticks around, which means he rules the roost and decides which records do and don’t get played. Phil takes no interest in music, so he is no help at times like this.

  The last of his cohort, the older lad is big and strong and brooks no contradiction. He is also the proud owner of two drumsticks, which he wallops off the workbench for hours on end to gormless tracks by The Spotnicks, René and His Alligators and a slew of guitar bands who try to emulate The Shadows and fail miserably. His all-time favourite is ‘Wipe Out’ by The Ventures, a pale imitation of Indonesian rock pioneers The Tielman Brothers. His drumming drives us out of the den and into the day room, with its books by Simenon, Ian Fleming and a guy called Franz Kafka. Much of what he writes is lost on me, but I’m gripped by the way his stories chime with our black lino, the bunches of keys on the group leaders’ belts and the countless doors that may not be opened without permission.

  My favourite door is the one on the first-floor toilet, where the dorms of the two younger groups are located. That toilet is for group leaders only and it’s always clean. Sometimes a leader forgets to lock the door and I can sneak in and sit on the wooden toilet seat at my leisure. Not that I have a chance to read. Ten minutes’ absence is usually enough to get you on the missing list. There are lads who have a go at me for reading books, though boys who read Donald Duck or Panorama are left in peace. The bullies all know a guy outside the home who sneaks a look at De Lach. When I admit I don’t know what it is, they have a good laugh at my expense. In hushed tones, one boy lets me know it’s a car magazine with a topless centrefold. ‘Guys say they buy it for the cars but the first thing they do is take out the middle pages, pin them on the wall and wank off staring up at those titties. De Lach says 36-24-36 are the perfect measurements. That’s bust, waist and hips. But you’re still too young for all that stuff.’

  *

  The powers that be also reckon I’m too young to opt out of one of the home’s annual traditions: Drenthe Time, a three-week summer outing. The school holidays are just around the corner and since I won’t be fourteen until the end of the dog days, I am one of a hundred or so kids packed off on the train to the sleepy province of Drenthe. Arti goes too, so do the girls. For some reason Phil is exempted. Perhaps it’s to do with his weekly sessions with the psychologist in an octagonal room in the girls’ wing, a bid to temper his aggressive outbursts.

  Each with our own suitcase, we travel to The Hague and board a green train reserved especially for us. The girls and the younger kids pile into the front carriages, most of them happy and excited. Us lads are less enthusiastic and occupy the rear of the train. Arti and I stare dreamily out of the window and hardly say a word as the Dutch landscape races past. Once or twice we gauge each other’s curiosity about our host families. The train speeds along without stopping until we hit Drenthe, where it calls at every station. Children alight and are picked up by their host families. Arti gets off in Meppel, and a few stops down the line I wave my sisters goodbye from the open window and travel on, all the way to Assen. There I am met by a couple who have a son my own age. The boy is called Jochem. I’ve never met a Jochem in Voorschoten or The Hague and I decide it’s a yokel name. I introduce myself politely and take my place on the back seat next to Jochem. I answer his parents’ perfunctory questions in simple sentences and look out at a landscape of woods and low hills. Happily, the car radio is on, but just as The Rolling Stones come crackling through the speaker with ‘(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction’, my host switches it off and leaves me bereft.

  We arrive in a little town called Gieten and pull up outside a neat house with a neat front and back garden. Jochem’s dad does me the honour of carrying my case from the boot of his shiny car. Inside, the house smells of furniture polish and the potted plants are gleaming. My neater than neat bedroom on the first floor is as big as the living room of our flat on Zuider Park, where my mother now lives alone, and where, as I find out later, she receives regular visits from her lover Willem, who then returns to his wife, a housebound schizophrenic living in constant fear of another German invasion.

  The food dished up at the Drenthe family home takes some getting used to, not to mention the deathly silence at the dinner table and the gleaming radio, which sounds great but is only ever turned on when it’s time for the news. Jochem does his best to keep me entertained. We play badminton in the back garden and take a walk through the town where he introduces me to his friends, who eye me suspiciously. When they slip into their local accent, I can’t understand a word they’re saying. One evening the master of the house takes me and Jochem for a drive to the Hondsrug nature reserve, stopping along the way to enjoy the view. Night falls and we turn back. Our headlights illuminate the asphalt road, deserted as far as the eye can see. All I want is to drive on aimlessly for hours, days, weeks, months, to drive for the sake of driving, till you don’t know where you came from or where you are going.

  Out of nowhere, a giant bird swoops down from th
e treetops and into the beam of the headlights, flying straight at us. Before it shoots upwards, its wide-open eyes look straight through me.

  An owl, Jochem and his father note drily. But for me that encounter is up there with the meteor I saw whizzing across the night sky above Zuider Park and disappearing into nothingness.

  When we get home, brand-new underwear is waiting for me on my bed, a string vest and pants, expensive and fashionable. I put them on the next morning and they feel wonderful. Jochem has a wardrobe full of clothes like that, but his life is boring. He doesn’t have much to say for himself. I have plenty to say but not the kind of thing you tell anyone. You can tell them about the owl that almost grazed your car and looked you straight in the eye. You can tell them about the huge meteor glowing white above Zuider Park, but you can’t tell them about the father who beat you. And Jochem’s not a boy you can talk girls with. He’s a year younger than me and for him too a summer excursion is on the horizon. He is going to a camp in his own province and I get to go with him for a holiday within a holiday.

  *

  It’s a camp for boys and girls. We stay at a youth hostel, take long walks, have picnics in the meadow, toast French bread on sticks above the campfire and play asinine games. I am more interested in the youth leaders who keep an eye on us, the men and the women. I seek out their company so that I can talk about life. When I unexpectedly ask one of the guys if he’s in love with one of his female colleagues, he answers with an astounded ‘yes’. He calls her over, they hug each other and announce that they are planning to get engaged. They ask me about my life in Voorschoten.

  The following day, something odd happens. We are out on a walk when the boys and girls suddenly pick up the pace until everyone is walking ahead of me. One by one they turn to face me, give me a look of utter contempt and walk on, laughing and whispering to each other. Jochem is among them. He does not come back and join me. The prettiest girl of the bunch seems to be the ringleader and that’s what hurts the most. A little while later, all thirty of them turn and look at me again, that blonde, proud, beautiful girl at their centre. I stop in my tracks and have no idea what to do with myself. All I know is that I have been banished from the group.

  The fiancés-to-be come to my rescue, reminding the whole company of the importance of comradeship, even with the ‘strangers’ among them. The boys and girls look ashamed, lower their eyes and as the walk continues they gradually allow me back into their midst. The pretty blonde girl even comes and walks beside me, though she doesn’t say anything. Is their exclusion perfunctory? Is it because I’m too friendly with the group leaders? Because I’m a city boy? Surely it can’t be because I’m the only one with black hair and brown eyes? This is a culture that’s unknown to me. At home we always spoke the truth, no matter if it led to a fight. At the children’s home, the talk is even tougher. Speaking your mind is not hurtful. At most, it’s annoying for the other person. But silently excluding someone from the group with a stare and without a single word, strips them of the right to defend themselves.

  Back in Gieten, I return to the monotony of breakfast, lunch, dinner and time spent hanging around with boys I can barely understand. I yearn for the end of Drenthe Time.

  On the last day I am given another new set of underwear to take with me. And an invitation for next year. But I won’t be back. Even if they drag me kicking and screaming into that train, I’ll force open the doors and make a run for it. No longer a sad little care home boy, but a hero.

  Guitar Indo (4)

  The Eagle has plans, spends night after night writing letters to the authorities. He is none too happy about our mother extending our stay in Voorschoten. Phil and I have a secret: we are glad we don’t have to go home. Without fully realizing it, we have freed ourselves from both our parents. The other three are still too young to take that inner step.

  One day my father turns up with a brand-new guitar for my forthcoming birthday. Red with black trim. I hang it above my bed with pride. On my birthday I am sent upstairs for punishment, I forget why. It must have been some sarky comment about the way things are done, the ‘guidelines’ we have to live by. One of the oldest boys sticks up for me and has a go at the female group leader who exerted her authority. He says it’s a disgrace to banish a guy to the dorm on his birthday. I’m not even allowed to play my guitar, not that I can play much. The boy feels sorry for me and sneaks upstairs to take a few snapshots. We push open the door to the fire escape. It’s glorious summer weather and I sit down at the top of the aluminium staircase with my guitar, my first guitar, between my legs, hands cupped around the headstock. I look every inch the birthday boy – white trousers, shirt and waistcoat – but there’s no smile for the camera. Smiling is for posers. None of my favourite rock stars crack a smile, they look out into the world like it can go fuck itself. I act like I don’t give a flying fuck about my birthday. And it’s true, I honestly don’t give a fuck. I have a guitar. At last.

  *

  I had to hang my guitar on the wall above my bed in the dorm to keep it out of the clutches of the barbarians in our group. But guitars don’t belong on walls: they wilt, dry out, turn into a castrato who’s had his tongue pulled out for good measure. The rules on homework and domestic duties were so strict that I barely had the chance to strum my childhood dream on a daily basis. And for every half-hour practice session in the dorm I had to submit a request to the head through the group leader on duty, and they couldn’t always leave the day room unattended to deliver my request to the head’s office over in the girls’ wing.

  One evening, Danny paid us a visit. He was a long-haired Indo boy from the town, who wore frayed jeans and a denim jacket with a Union Jack sewn on the back. This was a special occasion. Hardly any boys or girls from Voorschoten called in to see us. Most parents assumed we were in the home because we were no good. But Danny treated us with respect and played exceptionally good guitar, so good that even the head came over to hear him play.

  Danny could sing too. He knew whole Dylan songs off by heart, played The Beatles’ hits better than they did and even managed to get a tune out of my guitar when two of the strings snapped. After he came to call, my guitar sang like a harp. Danny was my hero, a cut above any rock star you could name.

  When I asked him how he was able to play on four strings, he told me it was a matter of tuning. He fiddled with the pegs till the guitar was in Hawaiian tuning.

  ‘You know kroncong, right?’ he asked with a grin, a sly one because it was a style that had long since gone out of fashion.

  I dodged the question and asked if he could play Indo rock.

  ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘The old Indos play like this… But nowadays we play like this…’

  Danny’s preferred mode of communication was the guitar. He was fifteen when his band laid down their first track and made the local papers. But the real challenge was making sure the band, two Indos and two Hollanders, stayed together. The bands that followed all went the same way. His bandmates couldn’t understand him. His musicality knew no bounds, he became harder and harder to keep up with, till eventually he left everyone behind.

  Care home boy

  Like all the others, I have found my place among the lads in Voorschoten. I have become a care home boy, unfit for family life forevermore. We are brought up by group leaders, male and female, most of whom move on after a year. We meet. We say goodbye. The people who raise us are legion. Boys come and go. Girls appear, girls disappear. There are pupils – that’s our official title – who are sent packing after only a week, who do not fit our care home culture. They are too aggressive, gifted or disturbed, there’s too much of the Amsterdammer or the homosexual in them. We have no idea where they might feel at home or where they are sent.

  On Fridays, we take fifteen cents and go down to the evening market in the town to buy waffle crumbs. One night, the oldest boys get into a fight with a bunch of locals who call them ‘scum from the kids home’. Punches fly. I steer clear of trouble and keep
my mouth shut when we are interrogated on our return.

  They line up the twelve of us under a stark ceiling light in the day room. The head in his standard-issue blue suit paces to and fro, repeating the same question: which of us troublemakers were involved in the punch-up at the market? The interrogation lasts for half an hour. Then sentence is passed. All weekend leave is cancelled.

  The next day we are sent out into the grounds with rakes, to the town square with brooms, and up and down the corridors with mops. The television is unplugged and we are packed off to bed at the weekday time of nine o’clock. Then all hell breaks loose. One lad curses another for not keeping his hands to himself at the market. The fighter tells his accuser to shut his gob. A scrap breaks out in the washroom. Everyone flees the scene and heads for the dorm, knowing these lads are too big and strong to be held back. Even the head, summoned by our cries for help, can’t separate them. By the time a hastily mustered troop of male staff arrives, the washroom is red with blood. The brawlers are overpowered, trussed up and dragged off, one to solitary confinement, the other to the shower room.

  Two days later, both have disappeared. Without a sound. It’s eerie the speed at which boys can vanish from our midst, gone before we know it. Weeks pass before we find out they’ve been dispatched to the place we all fear: the borstal at Valkenheide. The following week it’s quiet at the dinner table. Order and discipline have been restored with a vengeance.