Work Text:
Summer in Den Haag was as beautiful as people said, but none was as bewitching as his Indies.
It has been a long time since Aart Meijer stepped upon his motherland. Since he was a mere boy, he was brought by his father to oversee their plantation in the East Indies, the Netherlands’ most precious jewel, as they said. And most precious it was indeed! Aart could remember how lush the tropical rainforest there, how bountiful the crops were, how in every sense of words, paradise. Even here under the Den Haag sun, he could still feel the warm touches of equator’s rays kisses.
Rivers here were calm, and desolate. As long as his eyes could see, he saw water and none of living things–perhaps a few aquatic creatures here and there, ones that could survive the cold spring water and now swam in the warm summer water. Unlike here, the rivers of Buitenzorg were chaotic. Stones were placed by God on riverbeds of rivers that channel fresh water from Salak mountain to settlements and plantations, the water was always rushing, never quiet. Any spots were fishing spots, Aart swore his father and his mandor could fish all day long all-year round and the fish would never diminish in number. The most stark difference however, there were always activities near Buitenzorg’s rivers. One could always hear children’s laughter as they splashed each other, or baboes were singing and chattering happily while washing their master’s clothes, or jongos taking bath after a long day of work. If Aart were to close his eyes, he surely would see the mountain range and the familiar view of his villa in Buitenzorg instead of tall brick buildings of Den Haag and its empty rivers.
Talking about his villa, he looked at the grey sky mourning. His villa was the best house he could ask for. He grew up there, raised by his father and an army of baboes and jongos, ones that loved him nonetheless. He also had a best friend, son of his father’s mandor, the name was Galih–a friendship that no one should know for it was not deemed ethical for Aart to befriend an inlander. When he was a child, Aart loved to run through the woods with Galih, playing tag as children should be. He adored the earthy smell of trees, especially after a light shower, petrichor. Then, they created their own hideout, a small safe space, hidden from the cruel eyes of the world. A dug-out cave, made by the amateur hands of two eight-year-old children, some branches and banana leaves, they created a home (his father found out about it and the next thing Aart knew, the cave was buried, Galih was sent to Bandoeng). Such small space could not be compared to the luxurious townhouse he was currently residing in. Gilded furniture decorated the room as if gold was mere one gulden–a show of wealth, power move, high-society tactics, call it whatever you want, but it did not change the fact that Aart had witnessed people die from starvation, from working their bones to death. The wind was not cold, but Aart shivered.
The last day of the conference, Nederlands-Indonesische rondetafelconferentie, would start in about an hour. Aart found himself dressed up in a three piece suit, waiting for a driver to pick him up. He was part of the delegation of the Netherlands, face to face against people who fight for freedom of their own. He did not want this position, if he could, he would gladly jump over the table and run to the other side, hiding behind small but strong back of Hatta–then perhaps his father would shot him right through his head, asking what the fuck is wrong with his brain to side with the colony. Yet, he did not do that. He would gladly ask for that, but his mind was rational enough to categorize his thinking as mad .
When he arrived, he felt suffocated. The Ridderzaal was a huge gothic construction with a ceiling as high as the sky, it was also wide enough to fit hundreds of people and they could still maintain distance from each other. Yet, Aart felt as if he was about to greet death by asphyxia. Seeing those short people with their black hair and healthy brown skin, Aart was reminded of Galih and their promise to always be there for each other.
If he was the king, he would gladly give the East Indies whatever they want, whatever they need, whatever must be paid to repay centuries of generational suffering and degradation. Sadly, he was not, so the best Aart could do was to sway his co-delegates to be more lenient towards Indies’ demands. Not a very good politician, was he? The red reflection of the building’s mozaic hit his face, blinding him for a while before his sight got back to normal.
Hours ticked by, Aart was having a hard time not to close his eyes and hummed rasa sayange under his breath. The pen that was in his grip at the start of the conference now laid on the table, next to a blank white paper minus some scrabbles.
The sound of the heating debate funnily lulled him to an Indische restaurant with rijsttafel in the centre of its hall. Orchids and tulips were intertwined in vases, tropical plants decorated corners of the room, and the chairs were made from rattan. He could smell the spicy herbs and rich spices, engulfing the entire restaurant with their strong aroma. Even the fullest and pickiest person in the world would instantly drool when they see Indies food, Aart thought with a slight smirk on his face, apparently pleased with the idea. He could see a husband and wife having dinner with nasi goreng and frikadeller, enjoying their meals thoroughly. The sound of krontjong playing in the background made him want to sway, singing along to the mushed up words, code-switching between Dutch and Indonesian. Galih taught him plenty, Aart could hold a full conversation in Indonesian.
All good things must have come to an end, so does his precious life in the East Indies. Warm memories of his time in the beautiful Indies were gone, replaced by cold reality. He could not come back to the land he loved, because his presence was humiliation and hostility to the native people that he looked up to. Dutch East Indies was his dream, his paradise of the yesteryear. He was just a person, but he was a widower of Indië. As the chairman told the hall the end result of the conference, Aart whispered a goodbye to all things he knew.
Summer in Den Haag was as beautiful as people said, but they never told Aart how the grey sky could be so blue.