Stories from Deli

The Bangsawan stood on a spacious square. Outside the large frame building there was a swarm of people: Malays, talking in muffled voices, loudly screaming Chinese, individual tall-grown Bengalis with a princely bearing, a couple of constantly drunken Tamuls, and sly-looking Arabs.

In the booths of the opportunity vendors and in the travelling kitchens everything could be seen that eye and tongue could desire. Large stacks of fragrant pineapple, yellow, dark-red and bright-green bananas, oranges the size of a child s head, mangosteen, manga and rambutan lured the passer-by. And m the travelling kitchens all sorts of nasty-smelling dishes were simmering. The rival inn-keepers sometimes jostled one another cursing and swearing m a loud voice, then one of them would creep under his bamboo pole and move on a few paces with his restaurant.

A barefoot Malay policeman stood in the midst of a crowd and started a violent debate with a couple of Malays on the qualities of the prima donna. This not so stern guardian of order, aside from a uniform that was too big for him, had nothing to invest him with an air of authority, nor did he carry a weapon. He was on duty, yes, but why should he not debate with his friends? Quiet an order obtained in any case.

Or if not, then nothing could be done about it. Everything happened as Allah ordained. An orthodox Malay policeman should not meddle in the affairs of the all-highest court.

Our arrival created a great stir. The loitering Malays respectfully cleared the road for us, and the meritorious director of the Bangsawan company with humble scraping g and bowing invited us to approach.

“What are you giving today, master?” Van Alphen asked the smart-looking Malay comedian.

The director straightened his cowboy hat on his head, bowed low till his bright red Lavalliere necktie fluttered agitatedly, and said with affected pathos:

“Tonight we are giving ‘Tuan Paust’.”

For the Malays cannot pronounce the letter “f” and say a “p” in its place.

“So you’re giving Mr. Faust tonight. That’s something one really should see at the Bangsawan.” In front a few seats were reserved for the notability that might possibly be coming. These were followed by wooden benches placed in all directions, just as they came. The stage was lighted with carbide lamps, and on the curtain a very badly designed

angel, painted pink, was throwing gold pieces from a large vase into white balls, probably clouds. In front of the stage sat the orchestra: three Malays who were to play on a decrepit, out-of-tune piano and two violins.

When the orchestra saw us coming, it struck up “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary.” First this old hit, then a sentimental waltz. The fellows played so out of tune that one’s ears ached, yet I hummed with them.

In front of the stage two ice vendors had taken up their stand at opposite ends. They had started squabbling and were yelling rather strong swearwords at one another across the orchestra. The wiser one gives in one of them seemed to be thinking, and began

breaking up a large piece of ice on a grater. The other continued bawling incessantly. One could hardly hear a sound of the music.

Naked Chinese and Malay children were playing tag in the audience. Meanwhile the public talked in a loud voice, ate mangosteen fruits and spat out the pips. The Chinese uttered loud screams; one could not tell whether they were greeting or cursing one another.

The performance began. The curtain went up, but the stage was empty. The background represented a canal in Amsterdam. The orchestra loudly and frantically played Yankee Doodle. Still the stage was empty.

At last, a Malay appeared in black shorts, white canvas shoes down at the heels, and a sun helmet. He twirled the ends of his bold black moustache and introduced himself: “I am tonight the Tuan Paust.”

Then he bowed and left the stage.

After him a small, fat Malay stepped forward. He wore yellow football shorts and torn, long white cotton stockings; on his head he had the infantry helmet of the Dutch colonial troops, and at his side a sword.

The upper part of his body was covered with a chequered cowboy shirt and an open waistcoat. He introduced himself saying that today he was the Tuan Mepisto. Then he made his bow and retired, fully conscious of the dignity of his part. Now Gretchen appeared.

Her attire, too, left nothing to be desired by comparison with that of her male colleagues. She wore a not very clean, white and red striped morning dress, in her hair an enormous bright-green bow, and on her feet red cotton stockings. She had no shoes. Her ankle-bones-over the stockings-were adorned with rattling and clanking brass rings.

Gretchen too, introduced herself and sang the Blue Danube. Her singing was a discordant, nasal whine, but the public liked it; at all events the entire hall whistled, which in those parts is the strongest expression of applause.

The two ice vendors were still quarrelling. One of them-the wiser-had become bored with being the wiser: he, too, was now shouting. They both shouted together, a couple of sympathizers hurried to the wiser’s assistance, whereupon the other one stopped.

The children kept running through the hall and romping round with loud yells. Gretchen whined the Blue Danube but one could barely hear her.

After Gretchen’ s exit two clowns, dressed in rags and painted red and white, introduced themselves: Tjeloreng and Djuki. They were not tuans. But they, too, had important parts in the Faust performance.

For the clown is always the principal attraction, he may not be absent in any play. . .

When Tjeloreng caught sight of us, he improvised a welcome in a well-put speech. We sent him a bottle of beer through a Chinese ice vendor. Tjeloreng drank it ·at one draught and handed back the empty bottle to his colleague. Djuki would not stand for that

and gave a dance to win us over to himself. Then he got down from the stage, squatted in front of us and turned two somersaults. His fee-two bottles of beer-he carried triumphantly up to the stage, but then Mr. Mepisto appeared and with flashing sword demanded one of the bottles. Paust, too, got entangled in the fight, and now the performance proper began.

Gretchen and her suite danced a distorted one-step, their ankle-rings rattling. Toward the end of the play, Mepisto killed Paust, married Gretchen and wanted to make Tjeloreng Minister of the Interior-for Faust here appeared as King-when a noisy party arrived outside the theatre.

Six young planters, talking loudly, entered the hall. The director hurried to meet them and led them respectfully to their seats. “The performance seems to be almost over, said one of the young Europeans.

“Oh, that doesn’t matter,” the director eagerly consoled him, “we’ll simply add another act or two.”

And it was done!

In the first additional act Paust rose from the dead. Filled with joy, the drunken planters ordered beer to be taken to him on the stage. This gave Paust courage, he conspired with Djuki whom Mepisto had insulted because he had not appointed him Minister, and chased off Mepisto Gretchen, too, went over to him, and with her entire suite, six scantily clad maids of honour, passed into Paust’s harem.

This unexpected turn greatly pleased the public and the planters treated the prima donna, the maids of honour and the victorious Paust, to beer. Later they sent Paust away and withdrew with the ladies.

The two ice vendors were still quarrelling children had quieted down and were asleep on the benches. Fully satisfied, the public left the theatre.