Stories from Deli

Our trotting coolie turned and showed his sweat glistening face and his gold-gleaming teeth:

“Tjaboh, Taukeh?”

“Well,” Van Alphen said to me, “now that we’re here, we might as well take a look at the night life of Medan. Who knows, perhaps this Hongkong fellow can show us something amusing?”

“Right, let’s take the opportunity. In three days the damned tom-tom will be ringing again anyway.”

“Hi! You Hongkong, are there tjabohs?”

“Oh yes, Taukeh. And marvellous _ones . . . . beautiful, fat tjabohs,” eagerly replied this connoisseur of pothouses, and with a jerk he turned into a narrow side alley and trotted on through this dark little street.

Here and there we saw a Japanese pothouse with lighted windows: Hotel Ychiama, Hotel Nagaski, Hotel Yamatori: . . . But the coolie trotted on. They did not seem suitable. There must be still better ones.

In a very narrow, gloomy little alley he stopped and lowered the shafts of the rickshaw. Over the door of the pothouse hung a grimy sign: Hotel Okabo. But the hotel was dark, its doors were barricaded with boards.

It was very hot and a horrible stench hovered in the air. In the gutter stood filthy water, rotting fruit lay around, and a few dead rats were in a state of decay.

The coolie took a filthy rag and wiped the sweat from his face, chest and back. Slowly he crept up to the barricaded door and gave a low knock.

“Nyonya … Nyonya! … ” His yellow bony fingers drummed on the boards. Then for a while all was silent.

From a distance, from the Chinese quarter, the noise floated over to us in muffled sounds.

“Nyonya . . . Nyonya . . . ! ” the coolie called softly, and his lean fingers went on drumming.

In the upper floor of the rickety wooden house a plank window was pushed open and a furiously brawling woman’s voice called down:

 “What do you want? Can’t you see that the place is already closed?”

“Nyonya, there are two tuans here,” whispered the coolie.

“What’s it to me who’s there?” the furious voice began swearing. “It’s night now. You won’t get in as late as this,” and with a bang the shutters were closed again.

“There you are, you stupid Hongkong, you have cheated us nicely. Don’t you know your way about?

Whatever did you bring us here for if they won’t let us in?” Van Alphen railed at him.

“Oh, they’ll let the taukehs in,” the fellow grinned with his gold teeth, “the nyonya just pretends at first.

She’s afraid of the police. You see, she isn’t allowed to keep women any more, the police have forbidden it.”

“But why?”

“Who knows? The police have forbidden it, so it isn’t allowed. Does one know why the police forbid anything?”

A low shuffling could be heard in the house. Slowly and cautiously a board was pulled back, and an old tousled Japanese woman peered out.

“The tuans want a drink?” she asked in a low voice.

“Ho, ho,” the coolie quickly broke in, “just a drink.”

“You open the door, old woman, we aren’t police spies,” Van Alphen hustled her impatiently.

Slowly the boards disappeared. We stepped into a dark, warm hole. A small kerosene lamp flickered dimly. At the back a rickety wooden stair led to the upper floor. Suspicious odours hung on the air: there was a smell of dried fish, of incense, ginger, ammonia

and, in addition, of the perspiration of people of heterogeneous races. The old woman quickly barricaded the. door again, pulled a thick curtain across so that no streak of light might penetrate through the chink, and lighted a paraffin lamp.

“Tabeh, Tuan,” she greeted us, contorting her face to an obliging smile and bowing quickly in Japanese fashion ten times in succession.

“That’s all right, mother, don’t let your head roll off,” Van Alphen said laughing.

The woman straightened her smeary kimono, and the little mules strapped to her feet gave a rapid patter as she tripped over to the bar.

The drink was lukewarm, the table sticky, the air unbearable.

“Well,” I said, “for my part I’ve already seen enough of Medan night life.”

· “Don’t be so impatient,” my new friend replied, “we haven’t seen anything yet. What a finical creature you are! We aren’t in Paris after all. And besides, to my knowledge it doesn’t exactly smell of roses in the pothouses over there either. Mother,” he turned

to the Japanese woman, “where are the girls?”

“Ah!” she waved him off with a negative gesture.

“There are no girls here. I may not keep girls any more.”

“Don’t make such a fuss, you old vixen, I’ve told you already that we aren’t police spies. Can’t you see by the look of us that we’re planters?”

The old woman had discovered that some time ago, but for decency’s sake she was somewhat formal. A Japanese brothel-keeper knew what was what, she had unconditionally to guard her respect for the police by expressing herself in this way.

Artfully she squinted at the drawn curtain; then with a strident and commanding voice she yelled up the stairs in the tone of a non-commissioned officer:

“Aton! Djenah! Downstairs, march!”

“Well, I never, doesn’t she half change her tone with those girls!” Van Alphen suggested. “I shouldn’t like to be employed by her.”

The stairs creaked softly, bare feet were carefully walking down. A sleepy, tousled Malay girl shuffled in from the background. Her clothing consisted only of a sarong which she clasped convulsively over her breasts. A hairpin fell from her disarranged hair, she picked it up with her toes, then took it in her hand and pinned up the untidy hair.

“Tabeh, Tuan,” she said yawning.

“Well, that’s certainly the fairy of the night,” Van Alphen ascertained, “mother, where are the rest of them?”

“Djenah!” the old woman yelled up the stairs, “have you passed out, or why aren’t you coming?”

“Ouuuuuaaaah,” Djenah was yawning upstairs, “but I am coming.”

Aton squatted on a chair, she crossed her legs under her, pulled out a cigarette from behind her ear, spat out red stuff in a circle so that the betel juice ran down her chin; with the back of her hand she smeared it all over her face and then lit her cigarette.

Again the stairs creaked. Djenah was crawling down, ponderous and slovenly. Her huge flabby breasts dangled under her sarong, her eyes were glued with sleep, and her mouth exhaled a smell of opium.

She muttered something in a very disgruntled way, spat vigorously, then crouched in a corner and opened her mouth with a wide yawn.

“Well, friend, I’m going to hook it. I’ve had enough of this amusement.”

“Don’t be like that! Do wait a little,” Van Alphen begged.

Outside the door trotting steps could be heard then shuffling and a low knock. ‘

. “Nyonya_ . . . Nyonya . . . open, tuans have arrived, a voice whispered.

Again the window upstairs was thrown open, again the old woman swore, but a few minutes later she softly opened the door, and two drunken Europeans  almost fell into the place. Powerfully built fellows with plump hands and red faces. No planters these I said to myself.

“Good day, gentlemen! Is there anything worthwhile going on here?” the one Dutchman greeted us. “As I see, the old witch keeps quite decent wenches here now.”

“Well, where you generally hang around, there aren’t any pretty girls either,” I said.

“Right. There’s only crocodiles and mud and dried fish and . . . to hell! ” replied the red-skinned man, ‘,’our ship only stops once a month in a place that’s inhabited by humans. The rest of the time we spend in Bagan Si Api, in Benkulen, in Tandjong Penang, and similar God-forsaken holes. That is to say, that’s where we lie at anchor. For we load and ship copra,

ratan and dried fish. But why d’you say I have bad taste? Do you mean to say the fat one back there isn’t desirable? Come over here, you sleepy cow,” he bawled at Djenah, “don’t look so surly or I’ll have you whipped by the old Japanese Mamma.”

The old sailor rummaged about on the drink counter and came back with two bottles of genever.

“Don’t take everything, Tuan,” whispered the old Japanese woman. “For when the time comes for paying, he won’t believe that he’s drunk all that. That’s what he always does,” she explained, turning to me.

“Hold your mug, you old witch,” said the drunken sailor, belching violently.

Beside the staircase a dirty linen curtain parted, a fleshless young Japanese with a small moustache stuck out his pale yellow head and looked searchingly round at his guests. His features were hard and his glance revealed little that was good. I would not have advised

the two boorish Dutchmen to engage in a quarrel with him, and I wondered whether the fellow was also an officer. –

The two sailors asked him whether we would have any objection to their getting better acquainted with the two girls. It was long since they had seen such nice girls.

Presently the stairs creaked under their heavy steps, the men gave a satisfied laugh, and the girls said: “No  no.. ” with no conviction whatever.

Meanwhile the two ricksha coolies were waiting outside. Ours had fallen asleep, leaning against the shaft. His head hanging backwards, he sat on the ground and snored. The other was counting his money under the carriage lantern. He was anxious to become a taukeh before he had worn out his lung with the endless trotting ….