At the market-place in the centre of the village all was life and movement from dawn till late at night. Here people came to meet and gossip, and buy a handful of dried fish or a measure of rice. Once in three days, on market-day, you could buy pigs and ducks, mats, Japanese textiles, hardware from China and Java. Here too, in the shade of the great banyan that covered the entire market, men gathered each day to talk idly, or sit and think about nothing at all. They brought their fighting cocks, and sat for hours absent-mindedly massaging the firm, tense legs, or running the long silky necks through their fingers.
At -night the men’s clubhouse became the social centre. It was a long hut of bamboo and palm-thatch, with a raised floor of earth that had dried hard as a rock. Here the gamelan that belonged to the music club of the younger men in the village was kept. In the daytime you seldom passed without hearing from within a soft chime of gongs or metal keys as some child, sitting in the cool darkness of the empty hut, improvised and learnt for himself how to play. But after dark the hut was a luminous centre surrounded by a blaze of little, lamps. Outside the saleswomen had set down their tables of sweets and betel, while the members of the club gathered inside to practise. Now was the time to go through the music they already knew, for the sheer pleasure of it, or work over the difficult parts of some new composition they were just learning. They used no notes (indeed there were none, it seemed); each phrase of the melody, each intricate detail of accompaniment they had learned by ear, listening carefully and with infinite patience to the teacher who had, perhaps, been called from some other village. Late into the night they played. From the house I could hear them going over phrase after phrase, correcting, improving, until the music began to flow of its own accord. I fell asleep with the sounds ringing in my ears, and. as I slept I still heard them, saw them rather, for now they seemed transformed into a shining rain of silver.
NYOMAN KALÉR
A BALINESE VILLAGE IS divided into wards or banjars. Each has its headman, its priest, its separate community life. Sometimes the village is a peaceful one, with a harmonious relationship between all banjars, but often (I was to find out) there is bitterness and rivalry between adjacent wards, especially among the youths and younger men. One evening shortly after I had come to the village I received a call from the head of my own banjar.
It was dusk, and I was sitting on the veranda talking with Sarda when I heard the sound of steps on the gravel. I looked out, to see three figures approaching single file through the trees. The leader walked in a curious way. He seemed to drift in, for although he advanced in a straight line his body slanted sideways to the right, while his head tilted slightly to the left. He gave the impression of being on the point of going off in any direction.
But there was authority, I could see, in the way he came up the two steps of the veranda and sat down on the floor a little distance from my chair. His two young followers sat respectfully on the lower step.
Sarda introduced him.
This is Nyoman Kalér, head of the banjar and teacher of the légong dancers.
He wore a tight white coat, cut in the old colonial style, with brass buttons that ran up to the neck; a worn sarong and a tightly knotted headcloth completed his attire. He bowed politely before speaking.
Tuan has just arrived? They say tuan is from America.
He spoke in a gentle, friendly voice. He was a slight man, perhaps thirty, with intelligent eyes and a smiling, well-shaped mouth that was both sensual and vaguely sarcastic. There was also something a little pedantic about him, something birdlike in the way he inclined his head first one way then another as he talked.
The boys sat very still and silent, their hands folded in their laps. The older one had the features of Nyoman Kalér, but in his face there was only serenity. A small white flower bud hung down the centre of his forehead, its stem fastened in a hair.
Tuan has come to paint pictures perhaps?
My visitor came directly to the point.
I explained that I was a musician, that I composed music, and had come here simply to listen to Balinese music. I told him I expected to remain several months. I said I was happy to know he was a musician like myself, and I hoped he would come often to the house.
Yes, he replied, willingly! And if he could be of service I had only to ask.
After a short time he politely asked permission to depart. All three bowed, rose and walked out into the dark.
He is a clever man, remarked Sarda after they had left. He knows a lot besides music and dancing.
Gusti’s comment was less enthusiastic.
They say he can become a léyak.
What do you mean?
He hesitated, lowered his voice.
He knows how to turn himself into a monkey or a ball of fire.
The boy with the flower, who was he?
His nephew, Madé Tantra.
Two days later Nyoman Kalér made a second appearance. He came alone, in the middle of the morning, and the time passed in the most agreeable of conversations. As we sat there, smoking and drinking coffee, I began to question him about music in the village.
It turned out that in our banjar there were three separate gamelans, and he was the head of all three. One belonged to the légong club. There was also the gandrung club.
What is gandrung? I asked.
The dance is something like légong, but the dancer is a boy in girl’s clothes. He dances in the streets for a few pennies, going from door to door. There is another gandrung in the next banjar, but ours is better. When he dances there are always many who step out to dance with him. They can hardly wait their turn. . . .
There was a look of satisfaction in Nyoman’s face. He took a heart-shaped betel leaf from a little pouch, folded it and put it in his mouth.
The third gamelan was seldom seen. It was kept locked in the Temple of the Sea and taken out only on feast-days, to play the stately ceremonial music without which no celebration would be complete.
And the gamelan that practises each night in the clubhouse by the market? I asked.
His voice was suddenly thin as he answered, It is the music club of the banjar to the south; and though he smiled there was a curious withdrawal in his eyes. He sat for a while, preoccupied and no longer communicative, and soon he rose and took a ceremonious departure.
Sarda explained. Hot rivalry burned between Nyoman’s légong gamelan and the club of the other banjar. Members did not speak. Moreover, in the past month the other club had been called twice to Den Pasar to appear at the hotel. Nyoman’s club had gone there only once. . . .
Late that afternoon I heard the animated sound of gongs, cymbals and drums passing along the road, and as I looked through the trees I could see the rival club, wearing their brightest clothes, marching in procession towards Den Pasar.
They are going to meet the bus from West Bali, said Sarda. Gusti Bagus, who is head of their banjar, emerges to-day from jail, and they are going to greet him.
He had sold some ricefields, it seemed, that belonged to his brother. He had been away six months.
Nyoman Kalér had been a dancer as a boy. He was brought up at the old court of the Prince of Blahbatu. His father was one of the parakans, feudal retainers, of the Prince, and had been, among other things, a member of the palace gamelan. Nyoman Kalér (lithe and attractive, as a child, I imagined) had been trained as a court dancer.
What kind of dance? I asked him one time.