State of Siege

She spat at me; then, for about a minute, she fought like a maniac; a maniac with closed eyes who cursed me savagely all the time in Dutch. When, at last, she went limp, I thought that she had fainted or that it was a trick to make me release my hold; but it was neither. After a moment, she caught her breath in a sob and began to cry helplessly. I took my hands away and sat down on the other bed to wait.

The leaflet lay crumpled on the bed beside me. After a bit, I picked it up and looked at it again. To me it had been no more than a smudgy proclamation of martial law; but to her it must have brought the smell of death. I tore it into small pieces, and wished that I could deal with my memory of the street-fighting sergeant in the same way.

She was quiet now. I fetched her a glass of water. She had pulled her hair down over her face so that I could not see her. When she had taken the glass from me, I turned away and began to pick up the fresh bits of plaster that had fallen from the ceiling.

The sounds of the battle had changed perceptibly. The attack was still coming from the west, but it had become possible to distinguish the firing of individual guns. At intervals there was the short, sharp crack of an eighty-eight. The destroyer was silent again. There was nothing new to be seen. Smoke from burning buildings had drifted across the whole area. I thought of the people in the crowded kampongs along the canal banks near the firing, and wondered what was happening to them. Were they swarming out, trying to get away towards the centre of the city, or were they huddled trembling inside their houses, waiting for the terror to pass them by? The latter, I hoped. The tanks and guns would stay on the metalled roads as much as they could, and the defenders would choose solid buildings from which to fight back rather than canal banks. Later, perhaps, when the defenders broke and the mopping-up process began, it might be wise to join in the killing and so demonstrate one’s loyalty to the victors; but, for the present, it would be safer to remain passive.

I heard Rosalie put the empty glass down and move over to the mirror. I finished picking up the plaster and glanced at her. She was brushing her hair. She saw me in the mirror, looking at her, and stopped brushing. I went over to her and put my hands on her shoulders. She turned to face me.

“You do not dislike me now?”

“No.”

“You are not pretending because you feel sorry for me?”

“No.”

“If you were angry and beat me for what I said, I should feel more certain.”

“Most of what you said I didn’t understand.”

“It was not polite.”

“I know. There was something about my skin.”

She flushed. “You understood that? I am sorry. I said it to humiliate myself.”

“Does a European skin disgust you?”

“Sometimes.” She looked up at me defiantly. “You see, I do not pretend with you. And sometimes, my own skin disgusts me because it is so dark. My father’s was light, much lighter than yours. You are nearly as brown as I am. I like to touch and smell your body and to feel the strength of it. I do not think: ‘He is a European, I am an Indo.’ I think: ‘It is good to be a woman with this man.’ ” She paused. “But sometimes it is different. You know how these men here can feel about me. That is how I can feel about myself. Part of me is European. Sometimes I hate it and want to kill it.”

“What made you feel like that just now? Was it the leaflets? They don’t really alter anything, you know.”

“Perhaps not. I do not know. But I laughed at those officers dancing about like little boys when someone is throwing them coins, and forgot to be frightened. Then, when you showed me what was on the paper, it was worse than it had been before. It was like waiting for the pemoedas to come, and I wanted us both to die.” She looked at me anxiously. “Do you understand?”

“Not altogether. Perhaps you have to be an Indo to understand completely.”

She nodded. “Yes, perhaps you do.” She hesitated. “It is curious to hear you use that word.”

“You used it.”

“And you do not dislike me for what I said?”

“No.”

“Put your arms round me.”

A few minutes later she said: “I do not really mind if I have to die, but I am afraid of being hurt.”

“I know. So am I. The men in the next room are. The men firing those guns are. Everyone is-Indos, Sundanese, Europeans-everyone. There’s nothing special about you.”

“That is not polite.”

“I don’t have to be polite to you. It was part of the arrangement.”

She smiled then. “You remember? That is very businesslike.”

“Certainly. And dying was no part of the arrangement. If one of us is to be killed or wounded because we happen to be here, that is another matter, but we are not going to kill ourselves.”

“It is not much to kill oneself.” She was still smiling.

“It is to me. Whatever happens, don’t get that idea again, will you?”

Her smile faded and she looked up at me curiously. “Does it truly matter to you?”

“Yes, it matters.”