Visser snatched up a few official papers and put them under his arm and took a quick drink from a bottle of gin which dwelt in a small cupboard on the wall just below the portrait of the Queen and her consort. He looked plaintively at Boomsmer, who looked like a shelled egg in his tight white jacket and appeared to find something to laugh at in his heated colleague.
“You don’t feel the heat, man,” he said reproachfully.
“That is a matter of will-power,” Boomsmer replied, drawing himself up.
Visser went out. “I know one thing: once I’m old enough to draw my pension I’ll go about in a sarong,” he said from the door.
“That’s just about your mark!” Boomsmer called after him as the door shut. Visser had the reputation of being too easy with the natives. No sense of discipline, in Boomsmer’s opinion. It was essential, in his view, to keep a tight hold on that refractory island. But the Resident doted on Visser apparently. Visser knew the natives and understood their complicated lingo. He was sent out to conduct friendly palavers, which he sometimes brought to a successful conclusion. But for Visser’s interposition they might never have got the concession in South Bali. Cannon were better than concessions, Boomsmer considered. He had a ticklish sense of honor and in his opinion the Dutch Government was too easy-going. The mere mention of Bali made them all grow sentimental, he thought irritably. He himself had no enthusiasm for the island. Life in Buleleng was not the height of comfort and he regretted Surabaya. There was not even a club, as there was even in the most godforsaken colonial settlement. The natives were dirty and spat out their betel-juice even on the office stoep. They were eaten up with scabies and ringworm and fever and were too stupid to have themselves cured. They had innumerable superstitions and tabus, and the higher castes were even worse in that respect than the lower ones. The petty rajas, who after all were no better than bare-footed peasants, squatted about among the litter of their puris and thought themselves the most mighty sovereigns on earth because they could have the heads and hands of their subjects hacked off when they had the mind. But when one of them died, then he was wrapped in white linen and kept in the house till the stink rose to heaven. Boomsmer shuddered at the recollection of this charnel stench and took a quick nip of gin in his turn. The portrait of the Queen, youthful and in full regalia, looked down amiably from the wall.
Boomsmer went up to Visser’s desk and took the uppermost paper lying there. There was nothing on it, however, of political interest, but only a series of childish drawings of gentlemen in top-hats, such as Visser was in the habit of scribbling when he pondered a problem. Boomsmer sighed and returned to his own office, where a Javanese clerk with long thin hands stood at a desk, copying documents.
“What’s all this about that Chinese?” the Resident asked the Controller, who was seated opposite him in a cane chair. They were on the verandah of the large house, as it was coolest there. Berginck, the Resident, had his empty breakfast-cup at his elbow and also a large pile of papers waiting for his signature.
“The Chinese to whom the people of Citgit have mortgaged their fields?” Visser asked.
“No, that’s done with. The Chinese whose boat was wrecked.” The Resident searched about among his papers. “Kwe Tik Tjiang, the man’s name is,” he added, and looked the Controller full in the face. “I thought that was done with too,” Visser replied, after recalling the name and the circumstances. “The man calmed down and went back to Banjarmasin.”
“So you thought, but it is not the case. The fellow turned up again the day before yesterday, and this time he has the gusti behind him.”
“Gusti Nyoman? What has he to do with the Chinese?”
“In the first place, they see in him a sort of raja and think he can get more done than we can. And in the second place, they know that he was appointed by the Government and it seems they prefer to palaver with a Balinese rather than with us.”
“May I have a look?” Visser asked, taking the paper from the table. It was not unlikely he had forgotten the details, for this claim was only one among hundreds which had to be disposed of in the island. The Resident undid two buttons of his tunic and waited. He was a tall powerful man with fine brown eyes, to which short sight gave a look of concentration.
“As your Excellency will see, I had good grounds for refusing his claim,” Visser said, returning the papers to the table. “He had bad luck, it is true. But how does that concern our Government? His boat was wrecked on the coast, but his life was saved and the people there even fished his goods from the sea and returned them to him. I cannot understand why he comes to us for damages. We are not an insurance agency, after all. Moreover, the Resident initialled the case himself before it was dismissed.” And Visser gave the paper a flick nearer the Resident’s short-sighted eyes.
“You did not draw my attention at the time to the fact of the boat’s being wrecked on the coast of Badung,” the Resident said, without looking down at the document. Visser made no reply to this.
The three refractory provinces in the south were a thorn in the side of the Government officials. It was an unsatisfactory situation that the Dutch should be masters of the island and yet not masters of it. Also Klungklung, Tabanan or Badung might at any moment kindle a spark and rouse the already subdued lords to rebellion. There were treaties, so old that they smelt of mildew, with additional clauses and signatures which gave the Government a certain influence over these territories. So far, so good. But it was not a satisfactory solution and the Government in Batavia gave Buleleng to understand from time to time that their officials in Bali had had ample time to bring that colony to heel. Visser knew all this as well as the Resident did, and it sometimes robbed him of his sleep. He had done his bit. He had gone alone into the lions’ den; again and again he had ventured unarmed and unprotected into the puri among a thousand warriors armed with their krises and tried to bring their rulers to reason. He had drunk their horrible sweet rice wine and ruined his stomach with their over-spiced dishes. He had with infinite patience won the regard of several lords and tried calling himself their elder brother, to whose counsel they ought to give heed. But when he heard the word Badung he knew at once that there was unpleasantness to come.
“On the whole I got the impression that the Chinese wanted to make a deal out of his shipwreck. It is money he is after, that’s all.” “It never for a moment entered my head that it was for us to compensate him,” the Resident said. He pushed his empty coffee-cup aside with a clatter. Visser, too, felt the blood go to his head. He wiped the perspiration from his neck.
“As your Excellency seems to feel a particular interest in the case I would suggest summoning the gusti here together with the Chinese, Kwe Tik Tjiang,” he said in his official manner, expecting to hear the suggestion turned down.
“Yes, Visser, will you see to it?” the Resident said, however. “I shall be at home until two. In any case there is no occasion to be upset yourself,” he added in a conciliatory tone.
Visser crossed the expanse of grass on which were a few old Balinese stone statues and the flag-staff. It lay hushed in a drowsy stillness. An attempt had been made to give it a homely air by getting seeds from Holland and growing them in the borders. They flowered with difficulty and unwillingly in the moist heat in which groves of palms and the tropical creepers of the forests throve with indescribable luxuriance. A few Balinese were loitering along the garden railings and farther along the road were to be seen the trim villas of the Dutch settlers, all exactly alike, all painted a bright yellow and all with a hanging lamp and two imitation Delft plates in the stoep. At the edge of the road immediately in front them stood a little girl, brown and stark naked but for four brass bracelets round her arms and ankles and rolls of lontar leaves in her ears. Visser gave a deep sigh and returned to his office. He took a nip of gin and, sitting down at his desk, drew three more little gentlemen in top-hats on the uppermost sheet of paper. “Opas!” he roared out suddenly. “Tuan?” came the dutiful echo from without. The uniformed orderly entered with a frightened expression on his face. “I am now writing a letter which you will take at once to the gusti Nyoman,” Visser said, and Opas squatted in a corner to wait