The g’ndér was followed by a drum, on which Nyoman began to explain the different drum strokes. He held it across his knees, drumming lightly with his fingers—you only used the sticks for the great ceremonial music or the heroic dances. He used the finger tips, the palm of the hand, the ball of the thumb, striking the drum sometimes near the middle of the parchment to give a deep, hollow sound, or near the rim, when it rang out tensely. The two hands fluttered in endless patterns —the soft, rapid throb for the love scenes, light tripping rhythms for more playful moments, tense, heavy drumming filled with sharp, excited accents for the battles, the abductions, the appearance of a god or demon.
Another day he brought a little gangsa, to show me how the flower parts were composed. Soon the house was filled with gongs, drums, cymbals and flutes, looking like a museum in disorder. But I wished for a piano, for I was beginning to feel out of practice. I was also eager to try out some of the melodies from the légong gamelan that I had begun to write down, to see how they would sound.
It was by chance that I heard of one that belonged to a resident on the island who was willing to let me have the use of it for a few months. It created a sensation in the village when it arrived, for nothing like it had ever been seen. It was a shrill upright; its tones echoed disagreeably against the walls and the cement floor, but it was surprisingly in tune. The afternoon of its arrival the house was filled with visitors who came to listen to the strange new music that was suddenly heard in the village. They pressed the keys, examined the pedals.
What a great voice! they exclaimed. What a number of “leaves” (the keys). What are the foot-brakes for?
I showed them the mechanism. I played a melody from the légong which I had written down, filling in the gongs with the left hand. Lost in admiration they left to spread the news in the village.
The g’ndér looked very fragile beside the piano. It was beautifully carved; little animals peered out from a forest of leaves, and its keys jangled softly as we moved it. The piano was a monument of cold efficiency. As a ruler is marked, it divided the octave into twelve precise degrees. The tuning of the g’ndér was more irregular. Only some of the tones agreed with the piano, while others were strange and unaccountable as certain tones in the voice of a Negro blues singer. Heard separately, each instrument sounded convincing. When I listened to one after the other I was deeply disturbed. The piano sounded harsh and out of tune after the softer intonation of the g’ndér.
Since the piano had twelve tones to the g’ndér’s five, the music I played held no meaning for Nyoman. Tourists have brought back romantic tales of the Balinese taste for Bach, but this was quite impossible. Nyoman’s reaction to Western music was typical. It was a complicated noise without order, tempestuous and baffling in its emotional climaxes, dragging on and on and leading nowhere.
Your music is like someone crying, he said. Up and down, up and down, for no reason at all.
A simple tune on the white keys might catch his interest, but the harmony of the left hand ruined it for him. His ears could not filter the sound made by so many notes so closely spaced.
His reaction to rhythm was just as negative. Balinese music is tense and syncopated like jazz, and when I played a waltz, or an adagio from some sonata, Nyoman would exclaim—Where is the beat?
Where is no beat! Like a bird with a broken wing!
Only my jazz records would he listen to at all. He found the singing curious, the trumpet of Louis Armstrong fantastic, but he felt the rhythm at once.
THE GODS DESCEND
IN TWO DAYS IT WOULD BE be full moon, when the feast of the Temple of the Ancestors would take place.
For a month the women of Nyoman Kalér’s household had been busy, like the women of every other household in the village, in preparing the offerings, the endless cakes, fritters, sweets, and ceremonial objects made of palm leaf. In Nyoman’s house confusion reigned, especially the last few days, for new costumes were being made for the three little légong dancers, and snips and scraps of bright-coloured cloth lay scattered about among the piles of cakes and fruits. Men cut and sewed; over a table three boys leaned, their faces flecked with gold leaf as they painted enormous flowers and birds in gold on the costumes of the dancers.
The morning mist was still in the air on the day of the feast as one by one the men came out of their doorways and walked towards the temple, to begin the festive cooking. It was not long before the courts were in a turmoil. Soon there was the sound of chopping as groups of men prepared the spice, the sound of soft scraping as they grated huge mounds of coconut. Above the laughter and conversation pigs shrieked as they were carried into the kitchens. Ducks gabbled, while about the court chickens fluttered, blood still dripping from their necks. From simmering caldrons the acrid steam of bitter blimbing leaves mingled with the bright aroma of frying pork. Cooks stirred, prodded, turned the spits, carefully lifted from pans wide coils of sausage, to set them out to cool above the reach of dogs that now flocked in the courts. In the air there hung the sharp, fresh scent of ginger, lime and tamarind.
All at once, above this cheerful bustle there floated the sound of tranquil, golden music. The Gamelan with the Great Gongs had arrived. Exempt from other work, the musicians sat in the shade of a pavilion playing the music appropriate to ceremonial occasions—the stately Beat of Eight that lasted half an hour; the Beat of Four, the lively Beat of One. They rested for a while; began again: Clucking Cock, with its curious rhythm; the tuneful Snapping Crocodile. Throughout the morning the air was filled with sound that gladdened the hearts of all, causing the temple to ring with “festive noise.”
In and out the women came with their offerings, to arrange them by the shrines of the inner temple, until the sun was overhead and, by what seemed to me a miracle, the cooking was suddenly over.
While in the temple the village elders banqueted ceremoniously, the rest of the food was carefully divided and taken home, but not before the tiniest of servings, each meticulously complete with microscopic portions of rice and hashes, shreds of chicken and all the rest, were set aside for the gods.
A temple feast is a complex ritual, an anniversary, a three-day honouring of the gods. On the evening of the first day the gods are invited to descend and enter the shrines prepared for them. For three days they are feasted and entertained. Before they leave, advice and favours will be sought; they are then informed the feast is over, and ceremoniously requested to depart.
Late that night I walked down the road with Made Tantra to witness the arrival of the gods.
The inner court was filled with silent, expectant men and women. They sat there on the ground, quietly waiting. Below the shrines the offerings were spread out, and before them sat the priest and three elderly priestesses. Incense burned. In the silence the priest prayed, rang his bell, began a new prayer. Eyes closed, the priestesses swayed ever so slightly.
From a pavilion came the faint chime of a g’ndér. In the shadow I could barely make out a few instruments from the légong gamelan. A single musician played softly, waiting for the others to arrive.
A long, slow chant began, faintly at first, then growing in volume as others joined in. The priestesses swayed more violently, tossing their heads from side to side.
Have the gods come? I asked Madé after a while.
Not yet; soon, perhaps.
How will you know?
When one of them begins to speak.
But presently the priestesses stopped moving. They sat there very still. The priest got up.
Madé murmured. It did not happen.
What now?
Later they will try again. Sometimes you must wait a whole day.
Outside, in the clearing before the temple, all was light and movement. A crowd had gathered, waiting for the entertaining arja play to begin. The actors had only just arrived, said Made. They were still dressing.