Urip, outside, listened for a moment. And she was about to settle down to sleep, dreaming of the lovely sarongs that her mistress would give her tomorrow, when she suddenly started and saw a haji with a white turban walk across the compound and disappear into the night.
4
THAT DAY the Prince of Ngajiwa, the younger brother of Sunario, was to pay a visit to Pajaram, since Mrs Van Oudijck was leaving the following day. Everyone was waiting for him on the front veranda, rocking around the marble table, when his carriage rattled into the long avenue of cemaras. They all stood up. And now, especially, it was apparent how highly regarded the old dowager was, how closely related she was to the Susuhunan himself, since the Prince got out and, without taking one step further, squatted by the first step to the front veranda and respectfully made the sign of the semba, bringing his hands with fingertips touching up to his head, while behind his back a retainer, holding up the closed gold-and-white sunshade like a furled sun, made himself still smaller and shrank to nothing. The old woman, the Solo princess, who saw the palace glittering before her eyes once again, approached him, bade the Prince welcome in the courteous tones of palace Javanese — the language used between royal equals — until the Prince rose up, and the family approached behind the old woman. The way in which he then politely greeted the Commissioner’s wife was almost condescending compared with his servility of a moment ago… He then sat down between Mrs De Luce and Mrs Van Oudijck, and a leisurely conversation ensued. The Prince of Ngajiwa was very different from his brother Sunario: taller, coarser, without the latter’s shadow-puppet quality. Although younger, he looked older, his features engrained with passion, his eyes burning with passion: for women, for wine, for opium, and, especially, passion for gambling. Silent thoughts seemed to light up that leisurely, languid conversation, without ideas and with so few words, constantly punctuated by the polite “yes, yes” behind which they all hid their secret longing… They spoke Malay, since Mrs Van Oudijck did not dare speak Javanese, that refined, difficult language, full of nuances of etiquette, which few Dutch people ventured to use with a high-ranking Javanese. They said little, but rocked gently; a vague courteous smile indicated that they were all involved in the conversation, even though only Mrs De Luce exchanged the occasional word… Until finally the De Luces — the old mother, her son Roger and the brown daughters-in-law — could no longer contain themselves, even in front of Mrs Van Oudijck, and laughed in embarrassment, while drinks and cake were served and until, despite their politeness, they quickly conferred with a few words of Javanese, over Léonie’s head, and the old mama, no longer able to control herself, finally asked her if she would mind if they played a hand or two of cards. Despite themselves, they all looked at her, the District Commissioner’s wife, the wife of the representative of Dutch power, who they knew hated their gambling, their ruin, which claimed the highest Javanese dynasties, whom the Commissioner wished to sustain. But she, being too indifferent, wouldn’t dream of preventing them with a tactful jocular word, for her husband’s sake: she, the slave of her own passion, allowed them to be enslaved by theirs, and to revel in it. She simply smiled and was quite happy for the gamblers to retire to the twilight of the wide, square inner gallery, the ladies now greedily counting their money in their handkerchiefs, alternating with the men, until they were all sitting close together, eyes glued to the cards, sneaking glances at each other and playing endlessly — winning, losing, paying or collecting their winnings, opening the handkerchief full of money for a second and then closing it again, without a word, only the rustle of the small square cards in the twilight of the inner gallery. Were they playing vingt-et-un or the native game of setoter? Léonie had no idea, being indifferent, far from sharing that passion, and glad that Addy stayed sitting next to her and Theo looking jealously at him. Did he know? Did he suspect something? Would Urip keep her mouth shut? She revelled in the emotion and wanted them both, white and brown, and the fact that Doddy was now sitting on the other side of Addy, rocking almost in a swoon, caused her intense and wicked pleasure. What else was there in life but to abandon oneself to the urge of one’s sensual longings? She had no ambition, was indifferent to her high position; she, the first lady in the district, who delegated her responsibilities to Eva Eldersma, and to whom it meant nothing that hundreds of people at the receptions in Labuwangi, Ngajiwa and elsewhere greeted her with the kind of ceremony reminiscent of a royal audience — who secretly, in her perverse, pink daydreams, with a novel by Mendès in her hands, scoffed at provincial exaggeration, in which the wife of a district commissioner can be a queen. She had no other ambition but to possess the man she deemed worthy of her choice; no other spiritual life than the cult of her body, like an Aphrodite acting as her own priestess. What did she care if they were playing cards in there, or if the Prince of Ngajiwa ruined himself! On the other hand, she found it important to observe the traces of that ruin in his ravaged face and resolved to take even better care of herself. To have Urip massage her face and limbs, to have her prepare even more of the white liquid rice powder, the wonder cream, the magic ointment of which Urip knew the secret and which kept the skin firm, white and as wrinkle-free as a mangosteen. She found it fascinating to see the Prince of Ngajiwa burning up like a candle, his mind dulled by women, wine, opium, cards — perhaps most of all by cards, from peering stupefied at them, gambling, calculating odds that could not be calculated, calculating superstitiously, working out according to the traditional petangan almanacs the day and time when he must play in order to win, the required number of players, the amount of his stake… Now and then she stole a glance at the players in the inner gallery, shrouded in twilight and greed, and she thought of what Van Oudijck would say and how angry he would be if she told him about it… What difference did it make to him whether that royal family was ruined? What did she care about his policies, or Dutch policies in general, which are so keen to maintain the high reputation of the Javanese nobility, through whom they rule the population? What did she care if Van Oudijck, thinking of the noble old pangéran, was saddened by the visible decline of his children? None of this mattered to her, all that mattered to her was herself and Addy and Theo. She had decided to tell her stepson, her blond lover, that afternoon not to be so jealous. It was becoming noticeable, she was sure that Doddy could see it. Hadn’t she saved the poor child from herself yesterday? But how long would that warning last? Would it not be better if she warned Van Oudijck, like a good, careful mother?… Her thoughts roamed languidly; the morning was boiling, in those last scorching days of the east monsoon, when the limbs are covered in beads of sweat. Her body trembled and, leaving Doddy with Addy, she carried Theo off, and reproached him for looking so jealous. He seethed with anger, red-faced, clenching his fists, then imploring, then almost weeping with impotent rage. She became rather angry and asked him what he wanted…
They had gone around the side of the house, into the long side veranda; there were caged monkeys with banana skins strewn around them from the fruit the creatures had eaten, fed to them by the grandchildren.