Sun, 23 Sep 2001

It's Not an All Night Fair

By Pramoedya Ananta Toer

The only transportation that most people in our small town can use is the pony-trap. The hospital lay two kilometers from our house. So on that afternoon we took a pony-trap to the hospital. Four of us went -- I, my wife, my second sister and a young brother.

The hospital looked quiet. And patients from the charity ward sat outside on the verandah looking for lice in their hair, chatting, or dozing in their ward.

Room number thirteen -- my father's room.

We entered slowly. The creaking of the door made father's eyes turn towards us. I saw father smile -- the smile of a man who's satisfied with the life he's had on earth.

My wife and I walked in front and approached the bed. Suddenly I saw the smile disappear. And father's eyes rested on my face. Then I heard his voice which was almost inaudible:

"You!"

I moved closer to the bed.

Now father's eyes were closed. And blue circles surrounded the eyelids. Then I saw the tears gathering in his hollow eyes. And the tears stayed at the corners of his eyes -- they didn't flow. And I also saw father's lips moving. I knew: father was crying and the crying had no strength to it. I looked toward the window, in the direction of the mortuary. I drew long deep breaths, one after the other.

Quickly I took father's hand. And now I saw his body which had once been so robust and now looked as thin as a slat of wood. I saw father open his eyes. Carefully and painfully he raised his hand which was now bone and skin. He stroked my hair. I heard his voice which was low, indistinct, empty and without strength:

"When did you arrive?"

"At twelve o'clock this afternoon, father."

"That was quick. Did you come by plane?"

"By train, father."

Father didn't say any more. He closed his lusterless eyes. I stood up and released my grip on his hand. And I saw father regulate his breathing. And I also saw that the breathing didn't stop at his chest. The breath came and went from his stomach and his stomach was continuously rising and falling. At times when father was seized with emotion, his stomach was shaken by his breathing. And I saw also that father's hair, which five years ago was still black, had now become white. And the moustache, the hair on his cheeks, and his beard which were black-white-grey made father's hollow face appear dirty.

"And this is your daughter-in-law, father," I spoke again.

And again father opened his eyes. He saw the woman who for six months now had been my wife.

"Come here," said father weakly.

And my wife came closer, and made her sembah.i At that moment I felt extraordinarily proud that she was willing to make the sembah to my father. And father stroked her hair. In a voice which was indistinct, empty, low and without strength, he gave her his blessing:

"Selamat, ja, selamat, selamat."ii

Father closed his eyes again. Suddenly a storm of coughing seized him. And father turned his body to the wall. When father had some relief from the coughing I heard him say:

"Don't come too close."

And we moved back. The storm of coughing attacked again. And his body which looked as thin as a slat of wood was racked by it, and we all watched -- watched with an uncontrollable wrenching of our hearts. That storm of coughing eased and finally died away. Father dabbed at his mouth which was wet with spittle and phlegm which irritated his skin. He reached for the spittoon which was on the chair. He spat into it. And when the spittoon was put back on the chair we saw that the recent spittle was red. Yes, dark- red-blood! But we were silent, as if there was a long mutual understanding between us. I heard my wife whisper. "Ask father how he is." Like a parrot I mouthed out:

"How are you now, father?"

"Just the same, son. But those pills of yours managed to get rid of the foul smell in my mouth."

I saw father smile, as if he was saying thank you for having sent the pills.

"What do you think about being moved to a sanatorium?" I asked.

And father closed his eyes again. I saw him shake his head -- shake it weakly. His voice came from far away:

"O, that can't be done now, son."

We were silent. But we each knew what was going on in the other's mind.

"Do you want some eau-de-cologne, father?"

"It would be nice if there was some."

I asked my sister to go and buy some eau-de-cologne.

"Would you like some cod-liver oil, father?"

His eyes opened. He smiled. Then his teeth showed. And his gums were still as pink as before. His voice came from far away.

"If I drink cod-liver oil -- it will turn out to be a purgative."

I wept now, wept because I understood what would never be expressed.

Now and again we could hear the footsteps of visitors who had come to visit their families clattering into the room. And father watched me crying. But a little later his eyes were dimmed again. I was losing my father, my heart said. And, although after meeting him I didn't feel guilty any more, but -- that oil! I was going to lose my father. Through my tears I could see a glass of milk which was still full; a bunch of bananas which hadn't been touched; food heaped on a plate; and the spittoon a quarter filled with spittle and phlegm with blood in it. I was going to lose my father. I glanced back and saw with my eyes hazy with tears my father's eyes encircled with blue, and closed. Only then did I wipe my eyes.

Then, for a moment, it was very quiet.

Suddenly father's lips moved. I heard his voice coming from his throat, low, far-away, indistinct and without strength:

"They didn't hurt you badly in prison, did they, son?"

Father's eyes remained closed. And I said no. I could make out a smile on his face. And a ray of happiness was drawn across his countenance.

My wife approached the bed. She asked gently: "Would you like to eat something, father?"

Father opened his eyes and turned his head to look at the white table -- a hospital table -- and at the plate which was still heaped with rice. We heard:

"Ah," but he was smiling. "Who's got the heart to eat meat the size of that."

And we looked at the meat piled on top of the rice -- as big as the tip of a little finger. I bowed my head. Father's smile went away.

"What would you like to eat?" my wife asked again.

"Oh...," his smile flashed again, "I don't want to eat anything."

His eyes closed slowly. His expression was tranquil.

When my sister came back bringing the eau-de-cologne, my wife quickly dabbed one of father's hands with it, and she laid that hand on his chest.

Father opened his eyes again, and he said gratefully, "How refreshing."

He turned his body to face us and his right hand groped under his pillow. Then he brought out a pocket watch from underneath.

"It's half-past five. How quickly the day has gone."

I looked at my wrist-watch and the hands showed half-past six. Outside it was beginning to grow dark. And my sister who had come with us whispered:

"If father looks at his watch that means we're being asked to leave."

I looked at my sister's face. But she was whispering in earnest. And father watched us all from his bed.

"Father, it's late." I said, "Excuse us if we go now."

Father smiled and nodded his head.

"Father -- excuse us," said my wife.

"Father, excuse us," said my sister.

Father smiled again.

But my youngest brother went out of the door before us. We bowed slightly out of respect and left that room number thirteen.

Outside I called the child:

"You must ask father to be excused."

He went back into the hospital room. And when he came out again I saw that he was crying -- it was a crying which he tried to check. His eyes were red.

"Why are you crying?" I asked.

But he didn't answer. For a long time we waited for a pony- trap to pass. And while we were waiting in front of the hospital, my brother kept on crying.

"Why is he crying?" I asked my sister.

"He always cries when he comes home from the hospital."

And I didn't ask any further.

That evening my brother was still crying -- three hours later. When we had all gathered in the front room talking together he had stayed by himself in the back room. Several times I called him but he wouldn't come. He was crying himself out. Four times I asked his elder sister to bring him into the front room, but he refused to come.

From the front room I saw him open his school books still crying. He read crying. He wrote crying. Slowly I got up from where I was sitting and approached him. He was studying Geography -- but he was still crying too. And also crying, he learned by heart the names of places in Asia.

"Why do you keep on crying?"

At once, he shut his books. But reply? -- no! He didn't want to talk. He kept on crying. I hugged him and I kissed his wet cheek. I know, my brother, I know: you're crying for father who's sick. And I came out with:

"Have you eaten?"

He only shook his head and wiped his tears on my lap.

"You'll come and sleep with me, won't you?"

"No."

"Let's go and sit out in front with the others."

"No."

I let him down from my lap and he ran away still crying. He disappeared into his room. And he didn't appear again. From where I sat all I could hear were his sobs rising and falling as if they were trying to call something which couldn't be called by a human voice. Slowly I went back into the front room and continued talking about Djakarta, about Semarang, about cars, and about the many car thieves in Djakarta.

Then there came my uncle with his wife. And because it was the custom in our kampung that children couldn't join in the grown- ups' conversation, they left the front room and went to the back to study.

And as usual on the occasion of a meeting which marks the end of a long separation I heard:

"How are things?"

And I replied fine. And my wife was introduced to my uncle and his wife. The talking resumed. We each questioned and were questioned in turn. Coffee filled in the gaps. Then we became chatty. We came to:

"It looks as if your father is beyond help."

I watched my uncle's lips and his voice went on:

"Perhaps it would be a good idea to get some help from a dukun."iii

I looked carefully at his eyes. And his eyes looked at me in earnest. I also heard:

"I myself have only been to the hospital twice. Not because I don't want to go. I haven't the heart. That body which used to be so strong is now just bones. That ringing voice which used to slice through any opponent at every meeting now doesn't have any more strength. Those eyes which always made others bow their heads don't shine anymore. No... No... I don't have the heart to see them."

I bowed my head. It was as if his voice emphasized one thought: your father must die. I sipped my coffee and coughed a little.

"I don't know. I don't understand." I cried out weakly.

"Yes, I, too, don't understand. I don't know. I'm confused, too."

Before my eyes arose the black night -- really black.

"Have you already been to the hospital?"

"Just this afternoon."

"How was your father?"

"I don't understand. I don't know." Again I cried weakly -- so weakly my voice was almost inaudible.

"Perhaps your father has missed you for too long. How would it be if you stayed with him in the hospital? And if you wanted to write, you could write there."

I scratched my head in bewilderment. I said very slowly:

"To tell you the truth, I can't bear to look at father as he is now. I can't bear it. I haven't the heart."

We were all five of us silent.

"How's he eating?" my uncle suddenly asked. And my second brother replied sadly,

"Worse than yesterday or the day before."

"Let's hope that your coming brings him some relief."

"Let's hope so," we prayed.

But his voice was without conviction. And I felt that he didn't believe what he was saying himself. We were silent again. And everyone's thoughts pictured father's body slack and motionless on the hospital bed like a slat of wood. And we could hear, too, the coughing coming from right inside, weak, with hardly any force, a hollow, hacking cough. And I heard, too, "Oh ... I don't want to eat anything."

"Tomorrow we'll look for a dukun." My uncle looked at me. And I nodded. Together we sipped our coffee which was still warm. Our talk became chat. And our conversation again turned to Djakarta, Semarang, and car thieves.

Suddenly came:

"Where are you working now?"

"Balai Pustakaii iv -- but I'd only been there three days when I left to come here."

"What did your boss say?" he asked.

"What did my boss say? He has no rights over what I say or over me personally."

The conversation died again. We went back to sipping coffee.

"It's not that which worries me so much," I said, "but the consequences of this." I continued rather more slowly.

"Yes," said my uncle.

And I didn't know whether he'd said this yes consciously or not. I saw him looking at my coffee cup vacantly. He, too, was confused. I heard him take a deep breath and he looked across at me. He said:

"And what are your plans now?"

"I don't know. I don't understand. I'm too confused."

I glanced at my wife. She was contemplating the darkness through the open door. I looked at my aunt. She was looking at a photograph on the wall by the light of the kerosene lamp on the table.

I sighed. And the night deepened.

Glossary:

i. Sembah, a particular formal gesture of deference, done by placing the palms of the hands together before one's face, thumbs close to the nose, and bowing one's head slightly. ii. Selamat, a conventional greeting of older to younger people expressing both pleasure at seeing someone and at the same time extending a blessing. iii. A dukun is a folk-doctor to whom various magical powers including prescience are often ascribed. It is a common practice among both the educated and the illiterate to consult a dukun -- if someone is ill, or something is lost, or for similar reasons. iv. Balai Pustaka is the official state publishing house originally set up by the Dutch under the name Volkslectuur.