Her work as a teacher was perhaps just an attempt to obtain some kind of legal existence, I wrote. (I didn’t give her name.) Her fiancé had died in Surabaya. So in one blow she lost both lover and leader. She was left alone in Betawi. She tried with all her might to fit in with her people. The Chinese living in Java, she said, did not like the new immigrants very much. People said that they were seen as being as alien as the Natives or Europeans. So Mei was forced to stay away from them too. How alone she was. As time went on she lost more and more weight, she didn’t know what to do….
By the time the bell rang for everyone to get up, I had finished the story of our first meeting. My pen flowed magically. I felt
that this story was as good as any I had ever written. It was my first piece since arriving in Betawi. By nine o’clock it would be on its way in the post to one of the leading magazines in the Indies. Then I would have to wait. The next thing I planned was a story about my late friend, but I would write that in English.
By seven o’clock in the morning I was off to see Mei. She looked much better, but still pale and even thinner. There was no one at home except Mei and the boy who had met me at the station last week.
The boy wasn’t afraid at all. He came straight up to me and told me that everyone had gone to Tangerang.
“Today Encik Teacher Mei will go. All this time I have been the only one who has helped her,” he reported to me. “When Encik Teacher Mei goes I will have no one to help anymore.”
“You can help others,” I said, “who are sick or who need help. What’s your name?”
“Pengki.”
“A helpful child, and polite,” said Mei, pinching his cheek. “I will never forget you, Pengki,” she said in Malay. Then in English: “He was my student before.”
Outside as we were about to leave, his face began to tremble as if about to cry.
“You have brothers and sisters. You can look after them,” I said, and I caressed his head. “Do you want to see Encik Teacher again?”
He nodded.
“Can you read Latin letters?”
He nodded.
I wrote down the address on a piece of paper and gave it to him.
“It’s a long way from here. You’ll have to take a tram. Do you have any money for a ticket?”
He shook his head and I gave him twenty-five cents. But he refused to take it.
“You can come and visit, but be careful and ask permission from your parents first.”
“Won’t Encik Teacher be teaching anymore?”
I translated the question for Mei. And the girl crouched down and held the boy by the waist and spoke to him in Mandarin. She kissed him on the cheek, then she led him back inside. We thanked him for his help. Then we left, and we knew he cried.
“He’ll forget all about it soon,” I said.
“He’ll remember this all his life,” said Mei.
We rode along together on my bike to Kwitang. Mei had very few things, which she carried on her lap. And she herself didn’t weigh much either.
She had been dismissed at the school. Her contract had been unilaterally canceled. She had been declared unfit to teach because she was seeing a Native man.
I knew that I had to accept responsibility for looking after things now. And I did it happily.
“Don’t be afraid,” I said, more to bolster my own courage, “you are not alone.”
“But you must become a doctor.”
“That’s not so important.”
“Don’t say that. What about your family, your parents, and you yourself and your people? They need you.”
My people needed me, she said. We sat on the bench at Ibu Baldrun’s and in the dark I gazed at her face. It was still pale. Did my people need me?
We were sitting outside in front of the house. Mei held my hand as if I might run away.
“Don’t worry. I will keep up my studies. You mustn’t get upset about such things. You have to get better.”
“Give me a month. When I’m strong again, I’ll begin my endeavors once more.”
“Don’t think about that now,” I said. “Your health is the most important thing at the moment. That is your job now. Forget everything else.”
I had calculated that I had enough money to look after her. The board at Ibu Baldrun’s was three and a half guilders a month, plus another one and half for medicines. I still had five guilders a month left over from my allowance. Then there were my savings from Surabaya.
“You’ll get into difficulties because of me.”
“Don’t you think I’m your friend, Mei? Don’t you believe in me?”
I couldn’t see her face in the dark. I stood up to go but her hand still held mine.
“I must go back to the dormitory. I will come again tomorrow evening.”
“Your studies won’t be disturbed?”
“Don’t worry about such things.”
She kissed my hand, let it go and stood up.
“Come inside, Mei, you’re still not strong.”
I took her inside and handed her back to Ibu Baldrun. Then I went back to the school. I felt relieved. Ibu Baldrun had shown a liking for Mei as soon as they met. There was still food set aside for me when I got back to the dormitory but I wasn’t hungry. My mind was busy working out what was the next thing I had to do. I decided I would try to earn some more money as I had done in Surabaya. School was now second priority. I would start writing again.
I went back into the library, grabbed a pen, and wrote the tragic story of Khouw Ah Soe. A short, concise story. I did not give his real name. Then I read the papers, after which I went to bed.
The next day, before going to see Mei, I went to Kramat. I visited one of the papers publicied by an auction house there and introduced myself. Mr. Kaarsen received me with some suspicion. I gave him my piece and he read it. Yes, he read it—in just a few minutes. Nodded. He offered me cash straightaway—seventy-five cents. The best a sugarcane worker could get for a day’s work.
“I’m sorry, sir, but I’ve never been offered as little as that.”
“Don’t be upset. Our paper is given out free. If you want more you have to go to a daily. We can easily fill up any empty space ourselves. But if you would like to write advertisements for us, we’ll pay one talen for an ad in Malay, three talen for one in Dutch, and a
rupiah
per ad for English. Except we rarely publish anything in English.”
I took my piece back but accepted the offer to write advertisements. I agreed to spend one hour a day writing up the advertisements for customers as they came in—just as I had done in Surabaya. And I needed those talen.
It turned out that Ang San Mei had never had any practical education, in the sense of being trained how to turn her abilities into money. From a very early age she had prepared herself to be a teacher. Having left her country to travel to the Indies with her fiancé, she had turned to becoming a propagandist, a grass-roots organizer. And perhaps she had failed. She was stranded in a foreign country, separated from her friends who had died or who were far away. Deserted and helpless like a bird with a broken wing.
“No matter, Mei. At least I’ve got back the energy and enthusiasm I used to have,” I often humored her. “As long as you get better, all will be well. I’m really happy to see you studying Malay so hard.”
Two of my stories were published. I was paid more than ever before. And what was more important—people were beginning to take notice of me in Betawi. Anyway, that’s what I thought. And once my stories began to be published, there was pressure to write more and more, each time dipping into my store of energy, of which there wasn’t too much left. I knew I was losing weight, and Mei wasn’t putting on any either. My eyes became sunken. Mei’s lips were still pale.
Then the long holidays arrived. I graduated up a grade. It was Mei who was ecstatically happy. The dormitory was silent. There was no one left. But before they all dispersed, they couldn’t restrain themselves from making comments about my relationship with a Chinese girl and how they knew I wouldn’t be going on holidays.
Until then I had always assumed that among educated people the personal affairs of others were their own business. I was wrong. Their education was just a thin cover over their continuing support for the old, evil ways. There had even been those who had contacted Mei herself, thinking that she was some kind of street woman. And, of course, there were the anonymous letters. Someone even threatened to bring in the authorities, saying that we were conspiring to get around the residential rules for Chinese.
The director himself had also summoned me. He closed the conversation with the following words: “It would be best if you severed the relationship. Nothing should disturb your studies. The government has been generous enough to give you the opportunity to study here. You should be thankful.”
“Meneer Director,” I answered, “it is true that I have a relationship with a female friend, just as everyone else has here at the school. Even you, sir. Nothing is disturbing my studies here. None of my marks are below average.”
“Your marks could drop.”
“Anyone’s marks could drop, not just mine, And, on the other hand, they could get better.”
“You’ve lost weight. Your health is being affected.”
“Yes, people can lose weight, Director, and they can also die.”
My relationship with Mei went on undisturbed, thanks to the support of the hamlet chief. One by one all problems were taken care of. And more than that. More and more of my writings were published. And it was none other than the director himself who was among the proudest of my admirers. He had a famous student.
I took Mei on holidays to B—–.
She enjoyed her trip into the country. “The land here looks so closely packed, just like at home,” she commented. “Except here there are no flowers anywhere. No parks.”
I booked her into a Chinese-owned
losmen
and then went off to see my parents.
Father was away seeing the resident in Surabaya. I was able to see only my mother and my younger brothers and sisters. And this time Mother did not greet me with the same pressing questions. I couldn’t reject anything she said nor could I answer back. There was nothing for me to reject. My duty was to listen.
“So you decided to come home, after all, Child?” she greeted me. “Why are you so thin? Even worse than before.”
I was afraid the questions would come thundering in again—questions that would infiltrate my soul, would shake my emotions to their core, and make me love her even more deeply, despite her obsession with the old Javanese ways. But she didn’t ask those questions; rather she begged and pleaded: “Come on now,
Gus—
ah, you’re already an adult and I still must call you Gus. Come on, tell me what is the matter.”
So I told her all I knew about Mei. I didn’t have the courage to look her in the face. The seconds passed after I had finished my story. She said nothing.
“Mother, is this relationship a sin?”
“Will you take her as your wife, Child?” she asked, and I could feel that she was suffering.
“Is there anything else I can do, Mother?”
“There are many bupatis’ daughters awaiting a proposal from you but you wouldn’t like any of them. You always want something different.”
“Mother mustn’t be sad because of this.”
“No, my son. I am happy, and even happier if you are happy. The kings of your ancestors always dreamed of taking as a wife a Chinese princess. But they never made such a one their princess.”
“Mother, all I need is such a princess.”
“But her religion is different.”
“And were not the kings of my ancestors also of a different religion?”
“Perhaps. And perhaps there is nothing to worry about if it is indeed what you want. When do you want to marry?”
“That is up to you, Mother.”
“You can marry whenever you like and wherever you like.”
“A thousand
sembah
for Mother’s blessing. May she come and meet you, Mother?”
“You have brought her here, my son?”
“She is staying at a losmen.”
“I will go with you and fetch this daughter of China.”
And so we departed to fetch her.
Mei was sitting in the foyer of the losmen. Alone, in her best clothes, she looked fresh, like an alabaster statue. She was wearing a long white dress and a red scarf.
“Mei, Mei, this is my mother, here to fetch you.”
She smiled, and went up to Mother, and made obeisance to her by clasping her two hands together before her chest and bowing her head.
“Is this my daughter?” my mother asked in Javanese.
Mei glanced at me seeking a translation, and I translated for her.
“Here is your daughter. Ang San Mei is her name, Mother,” said Mei.
“Why are you here at this losmen? Why didn’t you come straight home? As if you didn’t have a mother here in B—–!”
“Who knows, Mother? I am just a foreigner here.”
“Who has made you feel like a foreigner? Come on, let’s go home, Child,” and she took Mei by the shoulder and guided her outside the losmen, straight into the carriage. I arranged for her things to be put aboard and instructed that the bill be sent to the bupati’s house.
Mother treated her as a child who had come from her own womb. Indeed, she showered Mei with even more care than that, to make up for missing out on looking after her first daughter-in-law. She herself prepared Mei’s room. She called my younger sisters to look after and befriend her, and to teach her how to wear Javanese clothes. And she summoned all the
gamelan
players to play that night, even though it wasn’t Monday.
Mei seemed happy to be among my family. I prayed that my
father would not return home while she was there. The atmosphere would change completely if he arrived. Even my decision to go to medical school had made him furious. Imagine how he would react to my marrying a foreign girl like this!
We holidayed like a prince and princess for three days in the region. This time there were no invitations for me to visit son-in-law-seeking local officials. Doctoring was considered servile work by this crowd—a goat-class occupation—not like governing.
On the evening before we left, my mother gave Mei a pearl necklace and ring.
At first Ang San Mei refused to take them. I advised her that it was not good to refuse. She took my advice and accepted the gifts. Mother also gave Mei batik that she had made herself, and some special herbal medicines for women. And then she asked: “When will you become man and wife?”